


The Reaping

by copperleaves



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2018-12-25 07:11:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 20,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12030816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copperleaves/pseuds/copperleaves
Summary: In a small Mississippi town, a man believes he's doing God's work as he culls so-called witches from the herd. The team is called in to investigate, and everyone is unnerved as the case unfolds.





	1. How to Spot a Witch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this in 2010 when Glee was good and the world was different. My original author's note:
> 
> It was written for the CM Case Files LJ group, and I chose a prompt by Arwen Lalaith. She requested a story with an UNSUB who reenacted medieval torture methods like those used by witch hunters. This story is my attempt to fulfill that request. :)
> 
> There's a bit of language in here, though nothing compared to Emily's potty mouth in "Going Wodwo." There are also some descriptions of torture, but nothing worse than you'd see on the actual show.
> 
> A huge thank you to my beta, chiroho. He always laughs at the meant-to-be funny parts. :)

**By the pricking of my thumbs,**  
**Something wicked this way comes.**  
William Shakespeare,  _Macbeth_  4.1

**Earthshine, Mississippi**

He had watched her for weeks. He had to be sure. He watched her around town, as she went to the store and the post office and the hair salon. He watched her at home, as she puttered around her garden and made dinner and walked her dog. He even watched her, sometimes, as she slept. He had to be  _sure_. After all, one does not take on a mission from God lightly. It was a heavy mantle, but he wore it with quiet, self-assured pride.

In all his watching, he'd gathered some critical evidence. She grew a huge abundance and variety of herbs in her garden, and he'd taken careful clippings of each one. Some well-invested library time had yielded him the answers he needed, and he now knew that not all of them were used in spaghetti sauce or goulash.

He'd seen her once, in the moonlight, laughing with a group of women. They drank dark liquid from silver goblets and danced like maenads.

After he'd grabbed her – sneaked into her bedroom by night like the stealthy Angel of God he was – he'd taken her somewhere quiet, somewhere he could do his work unmolested. He had urged her to confess. If she would only repent of her sins, perhaps God would allow him to spare her. But she refused, and he slid another pin into her soft, yielding flesh. She screamed, and he knew he hadn't found it yet, the mark the Devil left on a witch to seal their heinous, diabolical pact. A few more tries…surely it wouldn't take many more…

Smiling grimly, relishing his duty even as he regretted it, God's hunter on Earth continued his quest.

* * *

**Quantico, Virginia  
FBI Headquarters**

"So then Finn sang 'Jesse's Girl,' and, really, you have to wonder if they named him  _Jesse_  just so Finn could sing that," Penelope Garcia gushed as she handed a cup of coffee over to her friend and colleague, Emily Prentiss.

 Prentiss looked a little glazed. She stifled a yawn and tried to focus on what the enthusiastic analyst was bubbling about, but jag lag was dragging her down. They'd just gotten back from Alaska the day before; despite the team's hectic travel schedule (so you'd think she'd be used to it), she was still adjusting to the time difference. "What's this show called again?"

Garcia let out a huff of exasperation. " _Glee_ , Em, I  _told_  you! It's awesome!"

"And it's a musical?" the brunette asked with a skeptical twist to her mouth. "And they sing Rick Springfield?"

Garcia rolled her eyes. "Not  _just_  Rick Springfield. They sing all sorts of stuff – like 'Proud Mary' and 'Total Eclipse of the Heart,' and they had a whole episode just about Madonna. It was beyond epic. Anyway, as I was saying, the teacher, Mr. Schue, loves the guidance councilor, Emma, but she's  _seriously_  OCD, so—"

"Are you talking about  _Glee_ , Garcia?"

The two women stopped dead. Nothing could have possibly surprised either of them more than that voice asking that question. They both turned, slowly, to face Aaron "Hotch" Hotchner, the BAU's Unit Chief. "Um. Yes, sir. Um. Are you a fan?" Garcia said.

His normally stoic face broke into a grin, and the women blinked in astonishment. A moment later the smile was gone, as though he'd remembered himself, and Hotch cleared his throat. "Well, Jessica lets Jack watch it when she's keeping him, so now he requests it all the time…um…if you ever see one of the CDs floating around my office, it's probably a Christmas present for him."

"For Jack," Prentiss said, a raven brow winging toward her hairline. "Right. Most four-year-olds I know are  _huge_  Madonna fans." She glanced over at Garcia and spared a moment to marvel at the analyst's poker face.

"Sorry to break up the party, guys, but we've got a case," Jennifer "J.J." Jareau said as she sailed around the corner.

Hotch had never been so happy to see the team's media liaison. "You heard the woman," he said, "conference room in ten." He followed J.J.'s fan of blond hair in a hasty, head-bowed retreat.

"Oh. My. God," Prentiss mouthed to Garcia as their eyes met.

"I know, right?" she mouthed back. She broke into a grin that lit the entire hallway, and she was nodding so enthusiastically she had to rescue the giant purple rose tucked into her hair before it lost its battle with gravity. In a high squeak she said, "Hotch is a Gleek!"

* * *

"We've got a body a month for last three months, all abducted from Earthshine, Mississippi and dumped just outside of town," J.J. explained as she passed out folders.

"Earthshine?" Dave Rossi echoed, uneven brows dancing. "Any relation to moonshine?"

"Actually, earthshine is the phenomenon when light from the Earth reflects back onto the dark side of the Moon, thus making it visible," Spencer Reid said in a distracted voice as he flipped through the file. "Two women and one man?" His face scrunched in consternation and he missed Rossi's bland expression.

J.J. hit the button on her remote, and the pictures began to appear on screen. "Carey Dixon, 35, had thin metal pins inserted all over her body, and she had all of her hair shaved off – I mean  _all_  of it. She was then burned alive along with her dog, Shadow. Autopsy on the dog indicates he was strangled before being burned, unlike Carey.

"Audrey Dee, 28, was found beside a stream with severe burns to her buttocks and upper thighs. Her thumbs were severely mangled, and she was also shaved. Cause of death appears to be strangulation by hanging.

"George Carpenter, 56, was also discovered near a creek. He appears to have been…" She hesitated, swallowed, and then continued, "crushed to death."

"Accidentally?" Hotch said.

"Systematically. The county ME believes the murder weapon was man-made, like a concrete block."

"There are no other signs of torture on him," Prentiss said, "which is different from the other victims, though he was shaved. Maybe he died before the UNSUB was done with him?"

"This shaving thing…I would've said it was sexual, but the male victim throws everything off. Could it be the shaving  _itself_ , and not just shaving a woman?" Morgan said.

Reid drummed long, thin fingers against the table as he considered. "Was the first victim found near running water, as well?"

"Yes," J.J. said. "Also, there's this." Another image flashed on the screen, and Reid's pensive face broke into a grim smile.

"'Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,'" Prentiss read. "Grrreeat."

"Exodus 22:18," Reid said. "It's actually a slight mistranslation, but there's no Greek or English word that equates directly to the original Hebrew, which means something like…'one who poisons.'" This time he noticed the looks the others were giving him; cleared his throat and made his point. "All of these victims show wounds consistent with methods used by the Inquisition to torture suspected witches into confession. In fact, during the Salem witch trials – which weren't, by the way, conducted by the Church since Salem was a Puritan settlement – a man was accidentally crushed to death before he could confess his supposed crimes."

"'Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition,'" Prentiss said with a sliver of a smile.

"Not really the  _Spanish_  Inquisition, specifically," Reid corrected as her reference flew completely over his head. "It's estimated only 40 or 50 so-called witches were killed in Spain, while in Germany – the country with the highest total on record – had more like 17 to 26 thousand over a period of 250 years."

Prentiss blinked, nonplussed.

"Reid, what's the significance of the dump sites?" Hotch said.

"It was commonly believed that a witch couldn't cross running water, like a creek or a stream. The UNSUB is placing all the bodies near creeks outside of town in order to protect the townspeople. He thinks he's doing them a service."

"A mission-based killer," Morgan said. "We all know what that means."

"It means he won't stop until we stop him," Rossi said in a weary, dark voice.

Hotch nodded. "It's been three weeks since the last victim was found, so if he sticks to his schedule we'll be looking at another body within the week. Wheels up in an hour. I suggest we all – besides Reid – spend the time doing a little research on the history of witch trials."


	2. A Brief BAU Road Trip

**Look like the innocent flower,  
But be the serpent under it.  
**William Shakespeare,  _Macbeth_  1.5 ****  


**Earthshine, Mississippi (en route)**

  
The team had landed in Natchez ("Hey, guys, did you know that before the Civil War, Natchez, Mississippi had the most per capita millionaires of any city in America?" Reid had quizzed them as the plane touched down.) a few hours earlier and were now packed into a Bureau-issue SUV; the local Field Office had only been able to provide one; heading east to Earthshine. Situated well off the river, the town had enjoyed neither Natchez' pre-war prosperity nor the recent boom of riverboat casinos. It also hadn't fallen into faded-glory decay like Natchez, or been hit by the horror that had been Hurricane Katrina, and overall it had puttered along in its small, swampy corner of Mississippi, barely lifting its slightly weathered head to acknowledge the outside world.

"Insular," Prentiss summed up succinctly.

"Typical small town," J.J. remarked with a roll of her eyes.

"Maybe, but maybe not," Hotch said as he studied the file. "Small towns in the South are different than small towns anywhere else. This place isn't much changed from before the Civil War."

"Or, hell, before the  _Revolutionary_  War," Rossi said.

Morgan cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably in the driver's seat as they sped past yet another homestead proudly flying the Mississippi state flag and the Confederate flag – which, in Morgan's opinion, was pretty redundant, since the state flag had the old Stars and Bars as part of its design. Prentiss caught his expression in the rearview mirror, and their reflected eyes met in a brief moment of solidarity.

The moment passed before the others could notice, and both agents turned their attention back to the case.

"Hey, look at this!" Reid said. He shoved the map at Prentiss. "There's a Prentiss County in Mississippi!" He was grinning from ear to ear, like he'd just discovered penicillin, and the other agent peered at the map in apparent interest.

"Hum," she said after a moment, "there's also a Jefferson Davis County."

"I think the memo about the Civil War being long over got lost in the mail," Rossi said.

"Where are we going?" Prentiss asked as she passed the map back to Reid.

"Here," he said, pointing to a spot in the southern part of central Mississippi. "Chakchiuma County. The Chakchiuma were part of the Yazoo tribes, and they spoke a Choctaw-Chickasaw dialect. In fact, their name means 'Red Crawfish People' in the Choctaw language. Weird that the county named after them is way down here; their territory was in the northwest part of the state, on the upper part of the Yazoo River."

"Thank you, encyclopedia Reid," Morgan said.

"You're welcome," the young agent earnestly replied. "Ha! Look, Lawrence County is the only thing separating Lincoln County from Jefferson Davis County. He's like some sort of peacekeeper. The Switzerland of Mississippi," he said as he continued to study the map.

"He was a vampire, you know," Garcia said from the laptop J.J. was holding.

"Who was a vampire, Garcia?" Hotch asked, struggling to keep the impatience from his voice.

"Jefferson Davis. Wait, no,  _he_  wasn't a vampire; he was just  _working_  for the vampires. He was misled. Or power mad. Or both."

"What the hell have you been reading, baby girl?"

She sniffed. " _Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter_. It was a little violent, which gave me the whim-whams, even though you'd think I'd be used to it by now. But I really liked it. You guys should all read it. We could have a BAU book club!"

Reid's face was scrunched. "Garcia, Abraham Lincoln never hunted vampires. He served as a Congressman from Illinois before becoming the sixteenth—"

"I  _know_ , smarty. It was  _fun_."

"If you think that blows his mind, give him an eyeful of  _Pride and Prejudice and Zombies_ ," Prentiss said. "That'll really knock his mismatched socks off."

Reid had opened his mouth to comment, but Hotch forestalled him. "Let's focus, everyone. I seriously doubt Jefferson Davis was actually in league with vampires, or that Abraham Lincoln hunted them. Having said that, the rural Deep South often resents Federal involvement – an issue that  _does_  stem back to the Civil War. We'll need to tread lightly with the locals."

They all nodded agreement as Hotch fixed each of them with a carefully constructed Hotch-Glare. Satisfied that his team was all on the same page, he turned his attention back to the tech analyst, gesturing for J.J. to pass the laptop up to him from the backseat. "Have you found anything to connect the victims, Garcia?"

She shrugged. "It's a small town, sir. As we learned on our last case—"

"It's impossible  _not_  to connect the victims," Prentiss said.

"Bingo, my raven-haired beauty. Two of the victims used the same dry cleaner, all three of them shopped at the same grocery store, two went to the same church—"

"Wait," Reid said, "church?"

"Yep-o, young master sleuth. Carey Dixon and George Carpenter warmed pews every single Sunday at the First Baptist Church in Earthshine. They regularly contributed to the offering plate,  _and_ they were heavily involved in church activities."

"What about Audrey Dee? Was she a church-goer, too?" Rossi asked.

"Negative, sir, at least as far as I can tell. Audrey Dee was the second grade teacher at Chakchiuma County's only school, and George Carpenter had a son there – but not in Audrey's class. Carey Dixon had no children."

Prentiss drummed impatient fingers against the armrest while Reid leaned over from the third seat in the very back of the SUV. "I guess our UNSUB doesn't consider church attendance much of an alibi against witchcraft," he said.

Rossi considered as he flipped through the file yet again. "Maybe he thought they were  _too_  demonstrative? That they were such dedicated church-goers because they were covering for something?"

Prentiss nodded agreement. "But the second victim didn't attend church at all, so he must have had another reason for choosing her."

"I'd like to know what caused these burns on Audrey Dee's buttocks," Rossi said. "The ME doesn't have a definite conclusion."

"Probably a heated stool." Reid's voice floated distractedly from the very back, and Rossi swiveled to see the team's youngest member absorbed in autopsy photos instead of his map.

"A…what?" J.J. said, gulping.

"No, no, he's right," Prentiss said. "Women were sometimes forced to sit on a white-hot iron stool as they were interrogated. From the location and pattern of these burns…" she trailed off and glanced up to see everyone (except Morgan) staring at her. "What? Hotch told us to do research. Reid's not the only one who can remember stuff."

"A white-hot stool," Garcia said in disgust. "This boy is one serious sicko."

"The worst part is he's drawing from actual history," Prentiss said, "and he really believes in what he's doing. To him this is important, sanctified work; he genuinely thinks he's doing something  _good_."

Hotch drew in a long breath. "Alright. Morgan, you and Prentiss go to the most recent dump site after you drop the rest of us off at the Sheriff's office. Reid and Rossi, head to the morgue to get a look at George Carpenter's body. J.J., you and I will meet with the Sheriff." He paused. Then, "I don't think I need to remind you how quickly fear can turn even the most benevolent town into a frenzy of violence and persecution; we just saw it in Alaska. These people are going to be scared, and at least a few of them might wonder if our witch hunter is on to something. Let's keep our cool and set an example for local law enforcement."


	3. Earthshine

**False face must hide what the false heart doth know.  
** William Shakespeare,  _Macbeth_ 1.7 ****  


**Earthshine, Mississippi  
Chakchiuma County Sheriff's Office**

  
When Mike Dixon, the County Sheriff, introduced himself to Hotch and J.J., the team leader's expressive black brows drew together in a thoughtful frown. "Dixon," he said, "isn't that the name of one of our victims?"

The Sheriff – a tall, good-looking man in his early forties who looked five years younger – nodded. "Carey Dixon, the first victim, was my niece." He led them into his office, and he didn't notice as Hotch's brow furrowed further.

"Do you think you might represent a possible conflict of interest, Sheriff?"

The man shrugged. "It don't really matter, does it? Everyone knows everyone in this town, so even if she weren't my relation, we'd still be acquaintances. I'd still wanna solve it just as bad."

Hotch and J.J. shared a glance, but at last the Unit Chief nodded. "Alright, Sheriff, it's your case. Where can we set up?"

"I put everything in the break room. The boys grumbled a bit, but they'll get the hell over it. It's the only space big enough for what Agent Jareau here requested."

"Sounds perfect," J.J. said with one of her lovely, charming smiles. "Tell me, Sheriff Dixon, have you or any of your deputies talked to the media about the case?"

"Hell no, I put a lid on that day one. We found Carey's body like we did, all burnt up, and I told 'em to keep their damn mouths shut. But, see, it's a small town…I can't stop 'em from chattin' with wives and girlfriends and whatnot. But not the damn newspapers; them buzzards can move the hell on." He waved his arms like he was shooing a flock of birds, but then he sighed, and it seemed as though all the life and fire slipped out of him on that puff of breath.

"Look, Agent Hotchner, Agent Jareau," he said, sounding like a different man, "we gotta put this damn thing down. I got three bodies done up…freak style…in a town that ain't seen a murder in over a decade. This is a  _good_  town, Agents. We don't usually like outsiders stickin' their noses in our business, but I knew we was in way over our heads here."

"We're here to help you any way we can, Sheriff," J.J. assured him. "We want the UNSUB found as badly as you do."

"I'll take your word for it, ma'am, but somehow I suspect ain't no one wants this jackass as much as me." He sighed again, and he suddenly looked every minute of his 43 years – and maybe a few extra. "Welp, let's get started. I can tell you we've got somebody on our radar."

"Agent Jareau was led to believe you were stumped," Hotch said mildly.

"Stumped, sure as shit. But, to quote Stephen King, ' _country_  don't mean  _dumb_.' I've had my deputies sniffin' around, askin' questions, and one name keeps comin' up over and over." He selected a thin file from his cluttered desk and passed it to Hotch.

"William Lester," he said. "What makes him a suspect?"

"He's sorta the town weirdo. Folks call him 'Buddy.' He lives in that big ol' rundown pile y'all probably passed on your way into town."

Hotch glanced at J.J., and she nodded. "Reid pointed it out, remember? He called it…um…Stick Victorian, like Mark Twain's house." She held up a hand when Hotch's expression changed. "Hey, don't look at me like that. I'm just quoting him."

The Sheriff cleared his throat, and the agents turned their attention back to him. "Anyway, ain't no one seen him outta that…Stick Victorian…of his in years. It gives people the creeps."

Hotch closed the file and considered. "Sheriff, have you read  _To Kill a Mockingbird_?"

The man grunted. "Seen the movie. Look, I get what you're sayin'. Just because Earthshine's own Boo Radley don't like people don't make him a killer. But I also got a duty to the people of this county and this town, and if they want me to talk to Buddy Lester, then I better damn well do it."

"It might be a waste of time, but I suppose it's better to eliminate the town's favorite suspect – if only to prevent people from taking the law into their own hands."

Dixon's face creased. "I told you, Agent Hotchner, this is a  _good_  town."

Hotch's answering expression was mild. "I'm sure it is, Sheriff Dixon, but even the best town reacts badly to fear and stress. I'd like for my team to finish the preliminary work they're doing now so that we can sketch out a rough profile. If William Lester fits, we'll go talk to him."

The Sheriff – who was almost exactly the same height as Hotch, but somehow felt small in the calm, professional agent's presence – nodded after a few moments' thought. "Good enough, I guess. Let me show you the break room."

* * *

**Hunt and Earnst Funeral Parlor**

  
Morgan dropped Rossi and Reid off in front of the impressive home ("Italianate Victorian," Reid said, "like the Bates Motel in  _Psycho_  or  _The Addams Family_  house." Rossi looked bored.) that had been converted into Hunt and Earnst Funeral Parlor. The County ME was Homer Earnst, and he'd agreed to meet with them over George Carpenter's body.

The three men and corpse were in the house's basement, where embalming and (if necessary) autopsies took place. Reid was peering intently at Carpenter's body as Earnst went over his findings with Rossi.

"You can see from the crush patterns here," he pointed, "here, and here, the object was square. Also judging by dust and debris found on the skin, I determined that it was a large concrete block – two of them in fact, with the victim sandwiched between them." He pushed round glasses up his nose and blinked at Rossi.

The veteran profiler studied Earnst's notes. "And you believe the crushing was deliberate, not accidental? He didn't…fall…and a block fell on him?"

Earnst cleared his throat fussily. "His wrists were broken well before death occurred. I suppose it's  _possible_  that a man who had been missing for a week was wandering through the woods, fell and broke his wrists, dragged himself somewhere, and then fell onto a cement block in such a way that allowed another block to slowly crush him to death. Also, of course, he pulled himself out from between them and crawled to where the body was found."

Reid and Rossi exchanged a glance, the former's eyebrows dancing in a cross between amusement and alarm. "We agree with your findings, Mr. Earnst. We just like to be certain," he said.

"Well, naturally. Better to be thorough than sorry." The man sighed and removed his glasses; polished them on a monogrammed handkerchief he produced from an inside pocket of his suit coat. "Terrible thing, all of this. Terrible, terrible." He perched his glasses back on his thin, beak-like nose and carefully refolded the handkerchief before tucking it away.

"Tell me, Mr. Earnst," Rossi said as he flipped open another file, "we were studying these burns on Audrey Dee's buttocks and thighs. Your report doesn't indicate how they might've been made."

"Ah, yes." He cleared his throat again and looked away from the photos. "The shape was roughly round, but I couldn't imagine what…it must have been a fairly large object. Not that Miss Dee was a large woman," he corrected hastily, "just that normal objects someone like this might use to burn – a red-hot poker, say – would obviously not have been large enough to make a burn of this type."

"Ah, actually, we had a theory," Reid said. He stripped off the latex gloves and tucked a lock of hair behind his ear in a nervous, darting gesture. "Is it possible that rather than having the object pressed against her skin; like in the case of a hot poker; instead, Audrey  _sat_  on it?"

"Sat…? What…?" The man looked thunderstruck, and his watery blue eyes blinked rapidly behind the round frames of his glasses. "I can't imagine…" He cocked his head to the side, like a bird mulling over a riddle, and at last, reluctantly, he nodded. "Yes, Dr. Reid, I'm afraid you must be right. If Miss Dee were forced to sit upon…a stool…that had been heated to a high temperature, it would leave marks similar to this one. How horrible." He shuddered delicately and began polishing his glasses again.

"It certainly is, Mr. Earnst," Rossi agreed grimly. "It certainly is."

* * *

**Crawfish Creek**

  
"Jackson O'Hare was comin' out here with his traps, and he nearly fell over the body. It was in this grass over here, pretty near the water," a deputy explained to Morgan and Prentiss as he led them under the yellow crime scene tape and toward the meandering creek. 

"Traps? What was he trapping?" Morgan asked as he struggled with latex gloves in the humid Mississippi heat.

The deputy cast an amused glance back over his shoulder at the big-city Yankees. "Crawfish. Creek ain't named what it is just for show." He pointed out at the poles sticking up from the water. "Crawfish traps. You see all that grass, like where Mr. Carpenter's body was? Crawfish love that."

Prentiss picked her way across the boggy ground, glad she'd worn cargo pants and boots. "Crawfish are scavengers, right?" she asked. As the deputy nodded confirmation, she peered at the area marked out by flags arranged to roughly shape a human body. "Do you think the UNSUB might have left the body here so it could be…uh…eaten?"

The young man shook his head. "Naw. Anybody with a lick of sense knows what those poles mean; traps like that ain't gonna be left in the water long. Not long enough for little bitty crawfish to eat a whole man. Besides, he wasn't actually  _in_  the water. Crawfish ain't…whatchacallit? Amphibians."

"So the UNSUB knew someone would be along pretty soon to check these traps, and the body would be discovered," Morgan concluded.

"Yep. He weren't here more'n a day or two, ol' Birdy Earnst said."

Prentiss raised an amused eyebrow, and the deputy blushed. "It's a local nickname for the County ME. You'll understand when you meet him," he explained.

"Was there any effort to conceal the body besides the grass here?" Morgan asked.

"Nope. Jack said he was just layin' here, plain as day."

"No concealment with the other victims, either," Prentiss recalled from the pictures. "The UNSUB is dumping them where he knows people will find them quickly, but he's making sure the water is between the body and the town."

Morgan let out a slow breath. "Looks like the kid's right about that one."

"He usually is."

The deputy watched this exchange with a puzzled frown. "There's somethin' you should probably see, Agents," he said after a moment. "It wasn't in the pictures because we just found it." He led them to a towering loblolly pine, one of many that made up the surrounding woodland, and pointed out an inscription in the bark. It had been carved fairly recently.

" _MM3 XV_ ," Prentiss read. "What the hell does that mean?"

Morgan and the deputy both shrugged. "How much you wanna bet Reid'll know?"

Prentiss shook her head, ponytail swinging. "Sucker's bet. I'm not stupid."

"You got pictures of this, right?" Morgan asked the deputy.

"Yep. The Sheriff should have 'em by the time you get back to the station."

"Good. Why don't you send some guys out to the other dump sites to see if there are any similar carvings? I know Carey Dixon was found with the Exodus note, but were any messages like this found with Audrey Dee?"

"Don't think so, but Sheriff Dixon sent someone out there as soon as he heard about it." He hesitated; licked his lips. "Y'all ever seen anything like this?" he said.

Morgan and Prentiss shared a meaningful look. "We've seen a lot of bad shit," Morgan said. "It never gets any easier."

It wasn't exactly an answer to the young man's question, but it seemed to soothe him. "It shouldn't, should it? I mean, if you start gettin' numb, that's when you know it's time to trade the badge for crawfish traps."

A smile flashed across Morgan's dark face. "You got that right, kid. Damn straight."


	4. The Witches' Hammer

**What are these,**  
**So wither'd and and so wild in their attire,**  
 **That look not like inhabitants o' the earth,**  
 **And yet are on't?**  
William Shakespeare,  _Macbeth_  1.3

**Chakchiuma County Sheriff's Office**

  
"It could be Roman Numerals.  _MM_  is 2000; maybe it's a date?" Reid guessed as he stared at the photo a deputy had presented to him. His small face was scrunched in concentration, and he kept turning the image this way and that.

"Why would he use both Roman and Arabic numerals to create a date?" Garcia asked from the computer monitor. "And, besides, what would the significance of 2315 be? That doesn't make sense."

"Things that are significant to an UNSUB often make little sense to the rest of us," Rossi said.

"True, but—"

"It's not a date," Reid said. "Garcia, do a search. Look for  _Malleus Maleficarum_  section 3, question 15."

" _Malleus Maleficarum_?" Morgan said. "Latin, right?"

"It means  _witches' hammer_ ," Prentiss said. "It was a witch hunting text used in the middle ages."

"Got it!" Garcia crowed. "Section 3, question 15…'of the continuing of…torture…and the devices and signs by which the Judge can recognize the witch…'" She trailed off. "Ew, oh, 'various means in overcoming obstinacy and in keeping silence and refusal to confess.' I think he studied that one pretty hard."

"Reid, do you think our UNSUB can be using this book as a guide for what he's doing to the victims?" Hotch said.

Reid's head dipped and rose in a slow nod. "The  _Malleus Maleficarum_  was the most widely used of the witch-hunting manuals, but it had fallen out of favor by the time of the witch hysteria in Salem. I think he's imitating anything he can get his hands on."

"Is this more Inquisition stuff like you were talking about earlier?" Morgan said.

"Yes and no. The book does include a Papal Bull authorizing its use, but…well, most scholars debate whether the Bull is actually referring to the book, since it doesn't actually mention it by name, or if it was just placed there by the authors to add a ring of authenticity. The Inquisition wasn't very interested in witchcraft, because its sole purpose was to find heretics. Civil courts did far more torturing, trying, and executing of so-called witches than the Church ever did."

Hotch cleared his throat. "Does the book mention the torture methods we've seen so far? Those specifically?"

"I don't know," Reid said. "I've never actually read it. It's unfortunate that I don't read Latin, because I'd prefer to read it in the original, but as it is I can find an English version online."

"I'll send you the link," Garcia said.

"Reid, you get on that. Let us know what you find. The rest of us will work on the profile," Hotch said.

The young doctor turned the monitor toward him and began running his finger down the screen, the movement interrupted by the click of the mouse to advance the page. Morgan shook his head at the rapt expression on Reid's face before he flipped open the file.

"He held all three of them for a week, even George Carpenter. Are we sure his death was accidental?"

"Well let's think about his timeline," Rossi said. "He stalks them, abducts them…shaves them first, judging by the amount of re-growth, and then he tortures and eventually kills them. Is he torturing them the entire time? Or is there some torture, then he waits a few days before killing them?"

"Is he looking for a confession? Is that the point of the torture?" Prentiss said.

"You can make someone confess to anything if you apply the right stimuli," Hotch said. "Audrey was hanged, a much less painful way to die than being burned alive. Could she have confessed and earned an 'easy' death?"

"I feel like we have way more questions than answers," Morgan said with a frustrated sigh.

"We aren't completely clueless," Rossi said. "J.J., write this down. UNSUB is male, between 30 and 35. He lives alone, and he's isolated. He has a place where he can keep the victims and torture them without worrying about discovery."

"He knows the town. He's local. He knew where to dump the bodies so they would be found quickly, and he's able to move through the town undetected. A newcomer would be noticed instantly," Prentiss said.

"He has a religious background, probably not something mainstream, but rather a more extreme religious upbringing. He doesn't attend church now, though," Hotch said.

"He drives a vehicle that can hide the bodies – a van or a pickup. Probably a pickup, because those are a dime a dozen down here. Older, but reliable, and American made," Morgan said.

J.J. nodded as she hurried to get everything down on the white board. "What about the stressor?" she asked.

Hotch's mouth quirked, and he wondered for the hundredth time why J.J. didn't become a profiler. "I doubt it was the loss of a job or a girlfriend. A guy this obsessed doesn't have time to work or maintain a relationship; he probably earned his money the old-fashioned way."

"An inheritance, most likely from the recent death of a relative. The woman who raised him, maybe, his mother or grandmother," Prentiss said.

"And she was the one who was hyper-religious," Rossi said. "She's the one who began this obsession for him."

"Guys," Reid said, "I know why he shaves them. It's not sexual, at least…he doesn't  _mean_  it to be sexual." He turned the monitor and highlighted a passage. "This is from the chapter he quoted with George Carpenter's body. It talks about the importance of shaving every hair off a witch's body, to better search for witch marks."

"'The Inquisitor of Como informed us that last year, that is, in 1485, he ordered 41 witches to be burned, after they had been shaved all over,'" Rossi read before he let out a low whistle. "I hope he's not aiming for 41 victims."

"No, I don't think so. He's hanged one, so burning isn't a must for him," Reid said. "Very few people were actually burned alive. Most were garroted ahead of time, though in England heretics were sometimes placed on the stake with a bag of gunpowder around their necks."

"Ew," J.J. said, but she wrote it down anyway.

"Well, when you think about it, it was better than slowly burning to death."

Hotch rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. "Reid, I want you to continue to work on the book. Tell us if there's anything else in there that could help us get a handle on our UNSUB. J.J., set up a press conference. They're going to want some answers pretty soon, and I'm not sure how long the deputies will keep quiet."

"Do you want me to release the profile?" she asked.

He frowned thoughtfully. "I think we have enough to introduce the basics. Since our UNSUB is local, someone out there will recognize him." He watched as J.J. hurried from the room before he resumed issuing orders. "Prentiss, you're with me; the Sheriff has someone he wants us to talk to. Morgan, Rossi, start talking to the victims' families. Let's get as much information as we can about their daily routines; we need to know where the UNSUB might have come up with the idea that they could be witches."

"Hey, Reid, should we be calling George Carpenter  _warlock_?" Morgan said.

Reid looked up, his face cloudy with concentration. He blinked. "Male witches are called witches, Morgan. The word  _warlock_  actually means—"

"Thanks, kid, I'll keep that in mind," he said over his shoulder as he followed the rest of the team from the room.

" _Traitor_ ," Reid finished to the empty air.


	5. Lemonade with Buddy

**Nothing is**  
But what is not.  
William Shakespeare,  _Macbeth_  1.3 ****  


**Chakchiuma County Sheriff's Office**

"That is all the information we have at this time. I'll now be opening the floor for a brief question and answer period," J.J. said to the members of the press assembled outside the low brick building that housed the town's only law enforcement agency. It was a hot day, and J.J. was struggling to look composed in the sweltering sun. It would, indeed, be a  _brief_  Q&A.

A tall, sweating man with curly red hair surrounding a pink bald patch thrust a tape recorder at her. "Agent Jareau, does the FBI believe there will be more victims? If so, how soon can we expect the killer to strike again?"

"The man we're looking for believes he's helping the citizens of Earthshine, so it's very likely he won't stop until we stop him. That's why we're asking people to be extra vigilant in the coming days and weeks."

"These people were well-liked members of the community," a woman in a dark suit and eyeglasses said. "How is kidnapping and killing them helpful?"

J.J. had left out the witch trial angle, of course, but she smiled with well-practiced ease and said in a grave tone, "No one can be sure what exactly drives a man like this to commit his crimes."

"It's because they were witches, right?" a man called from the back of the crowd.

J.J. squinted toward the sound of the voice. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name?"

"Is it true, Agent Jareau? Were the victims witches?" the red-haired man asked.

She shook her head. "No, there's no evidence—"

"It doesn't matter if they  _were_  witches," the same voice called, "this guy just thinks they were. Right? He's puttin' 'em on trial."

"I'm not sure where you're getting your information, but—"

"Just answer the question, Agent Jareau," another reporter said. "Is the killer re-enacting witch trials?"

"Our investigation is on-going, and we do not wish to comment on motive at this time. Unfortunately, that's all we have time for today. Thank you." Without another word, J.J. and Sheriff Dixon disappeared back into the station's cool sanctuary, leaving the legion of clamoring reporters behind.

"I need you to find out who that was, Sheriff; the reporter who asked about the witchcraft angle. We brought that into the case, right?" Her delicate features were hard and set, and Dixon had to stretch his longer legs to keep up with her angry pace.

"We hadn't thought of it before," he said. "I'll talk to my boys, but I don't think they got it from us."

J.J. paused at the door to the break room and gave her temples a brief, rueful rub. "Well, it's out now. There's nothing more the press loves than hints of the supernatural; let's be thankful they don't think it has anything to do with demonic cults." She sighed; shook her golden head. "I just hope the town doesn't panic."

"It's a good town, Agent Jareau. People here know what they're about." Though he sounded confident, Dixon wouldn't quite meet her eyes. It made J.J. uneasy.

"I hope you're right, Sheriff," she finally said. "Either way, Agent Hotchner is  _not_  going to be happy about this."

* * *

**Residence of William "Buddy" Lester**

The house was, as the Sheriff had described it, a "rundown pile." Reid had called it Stick Victorian, but even Prentiss couldn't produce a point of reference, so she just took the young genius' word for it; that was usually the safest course anyway. Like all homes from that era, the house had the jumbled-up look like it had been added onto dozens of times down the years; that was just an illusion, Reid had explained, because the Victorians liked to look like Old Money, as if generations of wealth had lived in the same house when in reality it was brand new. Prentiss shook her head at the recollection: was there any random bit of knowledge that  _hadn't_  somehow found its way into Reid's encyclopedic mind?

Prentiss and Hotch stepped down from the black SUV and approached the dark, sprawling building. The large front porch sagged under the weight of neglect and, Prentiss mused, melancholy. That was it: whatever style this house might or might not be, it was, above all,  _sad_. Her mouth quirked, and she wondered when she'd suddenly become so fanciful.

Hotch rang the bell and eyed his fellow agent as they waited for someone to answer. "What do you think?" he asked.

"Not very isolated. I suppose he could have a cellar?"

"No, Dixon said the water table is too high here. No one has a basement."

"He said Lester hasn't been seen out of the house in years; that doesn't really fit with the stalking our UNSUB would had to've done."

Hotch nodded and pushed the bell again. Prentiss knocked on the weathered front door. "Mr. Lester?" Hotch called. "We're from the FBI. We don't mean to disturb you, but—" He stopped in surprise as the door swished open on silent, well-maintained hinges.

"Mr. Lester?" Prentiss prompted gently.

A round, moon-like face peeked through the crack. Bright blue eyes blinked in the brilliant flood of sunlight. "Folks call me  _Buddy_ ," the man said. His voice was quiet, as though he feared the sound. "Y'all can come in if you want."

He opened the door wider and stepped back into the foyer. Hotch and Prentiss followed, and neither agent could conceal surprise when they saw the interior of the house. The outside might be rundown, but the inside was beautiful, pristine, sparkling, and they felt like they'd stepped back in time. "Your home is beautiful, Mr. Lester," Prentiss said as she marveled at the intricately carved paneling, the exquisite rugs, and the mint-condition antiques.

The moon-faced man blushed like a delighted child. "Call me Buddy," he said. Then, with a gesture that seemed to encompass the whole house, "I take good care of it. I was always good with my hands." His expression stilled. "I just don't like it outside. It's too big. Come in, this way. I'm sorry I was so slow answering the door; I was makin' lemonade. Would y'all like some lemonade?" He led them into a small parlor and indicated that they should sit. A crystal beverage service adorned a Chippendale table, and the two agents perched on Queen Anne side chairs.

"We'd love some lemonade, Mr. Lester," Prentiss said. She glanced at Hotch, and a barely perceptible lift of his brows indicated that she should take the lead. "Mr. Lester – Buddy," she corrected at the man's look, "I'm Agent Prentiss and this is Agent Hotchner. We're with the FBI."

Lester poured three glasses of lemonade. He offered Prentiss and Hotch theirs before taking his seat and sipping carefully. "I've never met anyone in the FBI before," he said.

Prentiss smiled. "Sheriff Dixon asked us to come to Earthshine. He needs our help with a…a case…an investigation." She felt herself faltering, and she glanced at Hotch.

"Buddy," he began, his tone similar to the gentle, persuasive one she'd sometimes heard him use with Jack, "we came here to ask you a few questions. How long have you lived in Earthshine?"

The man laughed a little. "My whole life! Sheriff Mike didn't tell y'all that? There've been Lesters in this house since before the War." Hotch knew he meant the Civil War. "I take good care of it, to remember."

"I bet you can see the whole town coming and going from here," Prentiss said with a nod toward a shabby, comfortable looking chair near the window. It was decidedly out of place in the otherwise perfect Victorian showplace.

He nodded; blushed again. "I watch people come and go, go and come. I know the whole town."

"Do you know about what's been happening lately? About the murders?" Hotch asked.

"I heard. I read it." Lester shuddered; his expression was troubled. "It's awful. I can't believe it."

"Did you know the people who were killed? Carey Dixon, Audrey Dee, and George Carpenter?"

"Oh yeah, I watched them come and go like everyone else. Audrey was real pretty, and I hated how John Davis was mean to her all the time. And I liked George; he came to visit me sometimes; tried to get me to go to his church, but church is just too  _big_. Miss Carey was Sheriff Mike's niece; I'm sure he's real tore up about all this."

"Who's John Davis, Buddy?" Prentiss asked.

"Audrey's friend. Sometimes he wasn't nice to her. I saw him yell at her once, right out on the street. She cried. That made me mad. He shouldn't make her cry like that." He sipped his lemonade in agitation, and his eyes were far away.

"When you've been watching lately, have you noticed anyone new in town?"

"I noticed y'all," he said with a sudden grin, eyes snapping back into focus. "I saw your big truck come in this mornin'. It's a real nice truck."

Hotch smiled, briefly. "Thanks, Buddy. But what Agent Prentiss meant was have you seen anyone new over the last few months. Since just before Miss Carey was killed."

He considered; shook his head slowly. "Noooo, all the same people. Everything's the same, except now people are scared. I'm scared some, too. Someone threw rocks at my porch yesterday."

Prentiss set her glass on the tray and leaned forward; Hotch recognized the determined set of her mouth as carefully controlled anger. "Look at me, Buddy. You've got no reason to be scared, ok? We can have Sheriff Mike send a deputy down here if you want, so that if anyone does that again they can go to jail."

He bit his lower lip; looked down at his own face reflected in the pale yellow liquid; back up at Prentiss. "Could the deputy have lemonade with me?"

"You'd have to ask him," she said, "but that would probably be ok."

This seemed to put him at ease, and he leaned back in his chair with a small, contented smile. Knowing that Buddy Lester had told them everything he could, Hotch rose. "Thank you for your time, Buddy," he said. "You were very helpful."

The man stood, his moon face beaming. "Y'all will come back, right? If you don't like lemonade I can make sweet tea. I make real good sandwiches, too. Do you like sandwiches?"

Another hint of a smile from Hotch. "Agent Prentiss and I both love sandwiches, Buddy. Maybe we can come back, but right now we have to help Sheriff Mike, ok?"

He nodded; escorted them to the door. "I think you will. Catch him, I mean. I hope you do."

The two agents agreed and said their goodbyes. Back in the car, Prentiss gave the house another long, lingering look; she caught the flash of a moon-like face at the parlor window. "I was wrong," she said.

"About what?" Hotch asked as he fastened his seatbelt and started the ignition.

"I thought the house looked sad. That's just the outside; inside it's pretty content, I think."

"Lonely, though," Hotch remarked. "And certainly not our UNSUB."

Prentiss' possible reply was cut off by Hotch's phone. He answered it, and she watched as his expression turned to stone. After a few terse words, he hung up. "That was Sheriff Dixon," he said. "We've got another body."


	6. FBI 0, God 4

**A falcon, towering in her pride of place,**  
**Was by a mousing owl hawked at and killed.**  
William Shakespeare,  _Macbeth_  2.4

**Crawfish Creek**

Prentiss sighed as she stepped out of the SUV and peered through the trees at a familiar sight. "I was just here."

"George Carpenter's body was dumped close by, right?" Hotch asked.

She nodded; pointed. "I think the creek curves up that way, so this site can't be seen from that one. Still really bold."

"And early," Rossi said as the rest of the team joined them. "He's escalating."

"Who called it in, Sheriff?" Hotch said.

"Jackson O'Hare. Poor guy moved his traps downstream; guess he just can't win." Dixon shrugged as the team exchanged looks. "I know what you're thinkin', but wait till you meet ol' Jack. He's 73, and he prob'ly weighs 90 pounds soakin' wet."

"Rossi, J.J., why don't you two do that now. Sheriff, a moment?"

The lawman nodded and stepped away with Hotch. "Somethin' wrong, Agent?" he asked with narrowed eyes.

"We just left Buddy Lester's, and both Agent Prentiss and I believe he can be ruled out as a suspect."

He visibly relaxed. "That's damn good news. I figured there was no way Buddy could do somethin' like this, but I had to cover all my bases."

"Understood," Hotch said. "He did mention something, though: he said that Audrey Dee had a boyfriend, and that they didn't always get along."

"Ahhh, John Davis," Dixon said as he blew out a long breath. "Yeah, that kid." He shook his head. "He was a trouble maker growin' up. Picked him up a few times on vandalism, underage drinkin', possession."

Hotch's brow furrowed. " _Was_  a trouble maker?"

"Yep. Last time I arrested him was…'06, I think. He went down for a few months, came out a new man. Found Jesus, I guess. Now he's some sorta preacher; holds tent revivals out on Highway 9, always passin' out his damn pamphlets at Bea's Diner back in town.

"He and Audrey were together all through high school, then after it, too. She finally had enough right before that last time he went to jail. 'Bout damn time, if y'ask me."

"So they were no longer seeing each other?"

"Naw, not that I know of. You can ask his momma, though: she works down at Bea's."

His face was hard as he said, "We might want to talk to him. See if one of your deputies can pick him up."

"Sure, but he don't really fit your profile. Yeah, there's the religious stuff, and he's pretty close to the right age, but he still lives with his momma out in the Hollow. And houses out there's packed cheek-to-jowl. I don't know where he'd be takin' the victims."

"What about the tent revivals?"

Dixon considered. "Yeah, they're pretty far out, but y'all said he'd need a permanent place, right? Somewhere he'd have all his torture stuff set up?" At Hotch's nod, he continued, "He has those revivals every Wednesday and Saturday, and the location's different every week. Nothin' permanent about it."

"Glad to see you were paying attention, Sheriff. Let's pick him up anyway; even if he's not our UNSUB, he might have some information for us. It's possible the UNSUB has been to Davis' revivals."

"You got it, chief. You ready to go see the body now?"

"Lead on," Hotch said.

The Sheriff escorted the four agents down to the water. "Her name's Leslie James," he told them. "She worked at Bea's Diner in town." He caught Hotch's look and shook his head. "It ain't as much a connection as it seems: I think every girl in this damn town's worked at Bea's one time or 'nother. Mosta the boys, too."

"Had she been reported missing?" Morgan asked. He wondered about Hotch's conversation with Dixon, and what connection the Sheriff was referring to, but he knew Hotch would explain it all later.

"Nope. But her momma said she took off to Jackson every few weeks to see her boyfriend. She figured that's where Leslie had got to. Last anyone saw her was at Bea's, three days ago. That ain't our boy's usual schedule, I know, but we got no doubt it was him."

When they finally laid eyes on the body, they all agreed with the Sheriff's opinion. "God," Prentiss said, "what did he do to her?"

Homer Earnst looked up at the agents, somehow managing to peer over his glasses at them despite his crouched position. "I won't know for sure until I get her back, but…"

He trailed off as though unable to continue, and Reid knelt alongside him to examine the corpse. "It looks like she was hanged," he said. "The patterns are similar to those on Audrey Dee's neck. Not really surprising; most people don't realize that far more accused witches were hanged than burned. The UNSUB has obviously done his homework."

Earnst bobbed his head impatiently throughout Reid's little speech. "That's the easy part. When I went to flip the body, though…well, I've never seen anything like it."

Reid lifted an arm and let it drop.

Prentiss, normally so thick-skinned, shuddered and turned away.

"She's been racked," he said.

The ME cleared his throat. "I'm apparently not as familiar with methods of torture as you are, sir."

Reid rose and began stripping off his gloves. "The rack was one of the most widely-used torture devices in medieval and Renaissance Europe. It was popular with both civil courts and the Inquisition, and because it could be applied gradually, it was considered ideal for questioning reluctant suspects."

"Yeah, Reid, but what's it  _do_?" Morgan demanded.

He tucked a wayward lock of hair behind his ear and ducked his head. "A suspect would be tied onto it at the wrists and ankles." He indicated the corresponding ligature marks on Leslie's body. "The ropes were gradually tightened, pulling at the joints until they were dislocated or, sometimes, the limbs were ripped off completely."

"It seems Miss James was lucky, then," Earnst said. "At least her limbs are still attached." The weariness in his tone showed just what Earnst thought of Miss James' particular brand of luck.

"Yes," Reid agreed, "but she still…" He frowned; fidgeted. "At a certain point the muscle fiber is stretched beyond its ability to rebound." His eyes darted from Morgan to Hotch to Earnst and back to the sad, pathetic body at their feet. Prentiss still faced the other way. He swallowed. "That…takes a while."

Hotch shifted restlessly; the muscle in Morgan's jaw danced.

"Morgan, Reid, stay here and look for any possible communication from our UNSUB. Prentiss, you're with me," he said shortly. His voice was strained, but only someone who knew him well would hear it, and Prentiss wasted no time in following his long-legged strides across the marshy terrain.

* * *

The parking lot was packed, and Hotch had to circle several times to find a place. At last the big black SUV came to a stop in front of the small, homey-looking restaurant, and he cut the ignition.  _Bea's Diner_ , the sign proclaimed,  _Earthshine's first stop for home cookin' since 1954. Y'all come sit a spell!_

The two agents regarded the sign with mixed reactions – Prentiss with a sort of wary amusement, Hotch with something like nostalgic familiarity. Prentiss' stomach rumbled as she opened the car door and the scent of "home cookin'" hit her. "Maybe we could eat while we're here," she remarked.

He glanced at her with the hint of a smile lightening his dark eyes. "We should get take out for everyone, bring it back to the station. Reid won't eat if we don't remind him."

"This case doesn't exactly encourage a healthy appetite." She pulled her leg back into the car; closed the door. "Listen, Hotch, I wanted to apologize for my behavior back at the dump site."

The humor in his expression changed to grave regard. "You're human, Prentiss. Don't apologize for that."

"I don't know why it affected me like that. She just looked so…broken."

He let out a slow breath. "If Reid's right, she  _was_  broken. Literally." He hesitated; cleared his throat. "The Sheriff said John Davis' mother works here. If the parking lot is any indication, this place is popular; our UNSUB could be a regular."

"Probably is. He'd want to go where he could watch people." She opened her door again, and Hotch took it as his cue. The two agents climbed out of the car and hurried through the heat toward the restaurant; a bell tinkled as Hotch opened the door, and Prentiss preceded him inside. If the smell had made her hungry before, now it practically made her mouth water; a glance at Hotch told her he was having a similar reaction.

A short, round woman with a bouffant of impossibly red hair glanced up from the register. "With y'all in a sec!" she called. A moment later she was looking again – a classic double take – and a grin split her soft face. "Well I'll be! Y'all must be the FBI. Come on in. Counter or booth?"

The place was packed, and Hotch wondered if she were planning to physically drag seated customers away from one of the booths that lined the wall. A lone stool remained unoccupied at the counter, and he gestured Prentiss toward it. "We're not eating, ma'am," he said. "We just have a few questions."

She chuckled. "Listen, handsome, I been doin' this a long time. I know hungry people when I see 'em. Y'all want some coffee? Pie? Homemade every day!"

Prentiss gave Hotch an imploring look, and he relented. "Pie, sure. We also might be making some take out orders before we leave."

"Alright! Sit your skinny butt right down, baby," she told Prentiss. "You look like a lemon meringue girl. And you, honey: nothin' but apple'd do for you!" she said to Hotch. She hurried off before they could reply; shooed a man down the counter to free a stool for Hotch as she went.

The two agents exchanged amused looks. "It's like another world. I don't think even you could've changed her mind," she said.

"I feel it's wiser to pick my battles, Prentiss," he remarked blandly.

The woman was back a moment later with coffee and pie, and the agents thanked her. She watched in indulgent approval as Prentiss wasted no time before digging in. Hotch took a bite; nodded. "Good pie."

"I told you, honey. Bea's pie's the best in town."

"Are you Bea?" Prentiss asked after hastily swallowing.

"I'm Little Bea. Big Bea's my momma, and the Bea on the sign. She don't get around like she used to, but she still makes the pie every mornin' at 4am. Stubborn as an ol' mule," she said with warm, slightly exasperated affection.

"Miss, um, Bea," Hotch said, realizing he didn't know her last name, "we were wondering what you could tell us about Leslie James."

"Just call me  _Bea_ , honey," she said; reached across the counter to pat Hotch's cheek in a motherly way. Prentiss nearly choked on her pie. "Leslie didn't get mixed up with that killer, did she?" Bea asked.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, I can't answer that."

"Oh, well, no, I guess not. It wouldn't do a bit for her momma and daddy to find out somethin' like that through the town gossip mill, now would it?" She leaned across the counter and lowered her voice. "Leslie worked here steady for about two years. She used to pick up shifts after school in high school, then we hired her on full time after she graduated. She was a good girl; hardly ever missed work, worked real hard when she was here. What I wouldn't do for six more just like her."

"Were there any customers who seemed to come in just to see her, especially lately? A man who specifically asked for her section, or only came in when she was working?" Prentiss asked.

"Oh, baby, all the boys liked Leslie. She was real pretty, and she was always so sweet to her customers. I can't remember anyone in particular, though, 'cept maybe some of the ol' timers who thought a young girl like that was flirtin' with 'em. You know what that's like, pretty thing like you."

Prentiss colored, and Hotch sipped coffee to hide his smile. "Had any customers been difficult with her lately? Overly demanding or impossible to please?"

"No, like I said, everybody liked Leslie." She hesitated, and Hotch's eyes sharpened.

"Bea? What is it?"

She frowned; patted her lacquered hair. "Well, I don't know if it's anything, but…" She looked around; leaned closer still. "That Johnny Davis was in here a few days ago. He was in Leslie's section. I saw him talkin' to her, and she looked a might upset. When she got back over here she asked Jenny Williams to take the table."

"Any idea why?"

The woman shrugged. "He was probably tryin' to get her to come to one of his revivals. He would do that sometimes, corner the younger, single girls and preach at 'em. He said he was tryin' to save 'em from a life of sin." She snorted. "I'm good friends with Johnny's momma, so I don't like to speak ill, but that boy couldn't save a hoppy toad, much less a pretty girl."

"Could we speak to Ms. Williams?" Hotch asked.

"She'll be in for the supper shift. Gimme your number, handsome, and I'll give y'a call when she gets in." She winked, and Prentiss was glad she didn't have any more pie to choke on.

Hotch handed over a card. "That's very kind of you, ma'am. We'll also need to speak to Ms. Davis as soon as possible."

"You got it, honey." Someone from down the counter called her name. "Let me leave y'all some menus; holler when you're ready to make those to go orders." She tucked Hotch's card into her blouse and bustled away.

Prentiss cleared her throat.

"Sheriff Dixon is sure John Davis doesn't fit our profile, but we need to talk to him anyway," Hotch hurried to say before she could start. "He has a history of arrests, and he could have a possible connection to the UNSUB."

"Right," Prentiss said, both her tone and her expression completely blank as she studied the menu. "Do you think Reid would be more likely to eat country style steak or fried chicken?"

"Neither. Better just get him a cheeseburger."

"Sure thing, honey. Let me just 'holler' at your new girlfriend."

Hotch's glare didn't have any heat in it, and Prentiss could no longer hold back her laughter. After a moment his mouth twitched; he dropped his head. His shoulders shook, and people in the diner began to stare as the two fancy FBI agents sat at Bea's counter and laughed like idiots.


	7. Interview with a Preacher Man

**Wherefore could I not pronounce 'Amen'?**  
**I had most need of blessing, and 'Amen'**  
 **Stuck in my throat.**  
William Shakespeare,  _Macbeth_  2.2

**Chakchiuma County Sheriff's Office**

"Deputy picked him up out on 9, settin' up for one of his revivals," Dixon said as he, Hotch, and Rossi studied John Davis through the one-way glass.

He was a small man, maybe 5'5", and thin. He had mousy brown hair and eyes that burned. Hotch largely agreed with Dixon's opinion of Davis' guilt, but he also felt like the ex-con-turned-preacher had something to offer. They just had to figure out what.

"Bea told us he had an encounter with Leslie James not long before she disappeared. She also said he had a history of harassing the younger waitresses about coming to his revivals."

Dixon rubbed his forehead. "I wouldn't say  _harassing_ , really. He just got fired up sometimes."

"You seem pretty keen to defend him, Sheriff," Rossi said.

He shifted; watched Davis through the window. "It ain't like you're meanin'," he finally said. "Johnny Davis's given me plenty of headaches down the years, but he's still a local boy. I just can't believe someone I watched grow up could do somethin' like this."

"I'm sorry, Sheriff," Hotch said, "but you're going to have to get past that. Someone you know  _did_  do this. Any strangers in town would be noticed immediately; no one has seen someone new, so the UNSUB has to be local."

"I know it," he said with a heavy nod. "I don't like it, but I get it."

There was a knock on the door and one of the deputies poked her head in. "Sheriff, this just came for you. I thought you'd wanna see it right away." She handed over a thin folder and slipped out again.

Dixon flipped through it in consternation before passing it along to Hotch. He studied the sheets inside, brow furrowing, and then handed it to Rossi.

The older agent let out a sigh. "Well, I guess that's that."

* * *

Prentiss and J.J. sat together in the Sheriff department's break room sipping coffee and finishing the last few bites of the food from Bea's. J.J. groaned and dropped her fork in defeat. "I'm stuffed. That was amazing."

"You should try the pie. If this case drags on, I'll have to find a gym pretty soon," Prentiss told her.

"When I was pregnant with Henry I couldn't stop eating blueberry pie. Now I can barely look at it. Did they have cherry?"

Prentiss grinned. "I think so. The owner is some sort of pie whisperer; she'll match you to your perfect piece of pie. We might have a hard time getting Hotch back in there, though." She told J.J. about their experience in the diner, and the two women were nearly crying with laughter when the door opened.

"You see how it is, kid? We're out there sweatin' our asses off in the swamp, and these two are here havin' lunch and laughin'," Morgan said to Reid.

"More like early dinner. We brought you some," Prentiss told him. She passed him the bag, and he sniffed appreciatively.

Reid and Morgan joined their fellow agents at the table, and for a moment the only sounds were the shuffling of papers, the crinkling of plastic bags, and the squeaking of Styrofoam packages. J.J. and Prentiss watched them eat, and after several satisfying mouthfuls, Morgan put down his fork and raised his brows.

"You and Hotch find anything besides food at the diner?"

"Hotch and Rossi are about to interview John Davis. We learned some interesting things about him." She filled them in, and Reid hastily swallowed a bite of cheeseburger.

"He harassed women often? About his revivals?" he said.

Prentiss nodded. "Apparently. But one of our victims was male, and Davis' usual targets were young women."

"We found something at the dump site," Morgan said. He fished a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it over. "Looks like our boy's keepin' score."

" _FBI 0, God 4_. I guess that sums it up. No quotes, though?"

"We didn't find any," Reid said. "But this means he knows we're here, though that's hardly surprising considering the size of the town."

"Bea pegged us as FBI the second we walked in the door," Prentiss told him.

J.J. was studying the paper with a frown between her delicate brows. "Do you think this is a challenge?" she asked. "Like he's taunting us for not catching him?"

"Not exactly," Morgan said. "A guy like this doesn't want to be caught. I worry, though, that us being here will accelerate his timeline."

"It already has," Reid said. "He only kept Leslie James three days."

Prentiss nodded. "And he might abduct the next victim sooner, too. He'll want to…" she paused; considered, "cleanse the town of as many witches as possible before he's caught."

"So at this point he's sure we're going to catch him?" J.J. asked.

"He probably won't let us take him alive," Reid said. "Suicide by cop is the most likely scenario."

A grim silence fell, and the opening of the door finally broke it. "Prentiss," Hotch said, "I want you in on the Davis interrogation. Given his history with women, you might be able to get something out of him."

* * *

"Rossi's in there now," Hotch explained. "I stepped out to get you, and seemingly to get this." He passed Prentiss the folder they'd received from the deputy earlier. "He's not saying much, except to deny he's the UNSUB."

Prentiss read the pages with a brief lift of her brows. "The UNSUB wouldn't be able to admit his guilt fast enough. This is his life's work."

"Exactly," Hotch said. He opened the door to the interview room and gestured Rossi out. "Agent Rossi, Agent Prentiss and I will take over from here."

"You got it," Rossi said. "This piece of shit is a waste of my time."

Hotch and Prentiss stepped into the room, and she slid a sheet of paper from the manila folder across the table toward Davis before sitting. "Mr. Davis, I'm Agent Prentiss. Do you understand why you're here?"

"Y'all think I killed them people, Audrey and everybody. I kept tellin' that other guy I don't know nothin'. I'll tell you the same damn thing."

Prentiss flashed a brief, thin smile. "I'd like you to read the paper before you, Mr. Davis. Explain it to me, please."

He stared down at the sheet; a frown began to contort his features. "It's a property deed. So what?"

"It's a deed to  _your_  property, Mr. Davis; the one you own outside of town, near Crawfish Creek. Do you know what this tells us?"

He shrugged, feigning indifference. "I own some land. Big deal." He leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms over his chest. His leg jiggered up and down.

She leaned forward; folded her hands on the table. "Agent Hotchner," she said without taking her eyes off Davis, "please explain Mr. Davis' situation to him. I don't think he understands the trouble he's in."

"Agent Prentiss is right, Mr. Davis," Hotch said smoothly. "We understand that you live with your mother; that would make us think you're not our killer. But this land changes everything. An isolated piece of property like this gives you the room you would need to kill these people."

That seemed to get his attention. He rubbed his palms against his thighs; shifted in his seat. "Look, y'all got the wrong guy. I wasn't even in town when Audrey got took. I was gone the whole week."

Prentiss glanced at Hotch. "That doesn't necessarily excuse you, Mr. Davis," she said.

He licked his lips. "I can get witnesses. Lots of 'em. I was leading a retreat the whole week. You can ask anybody!"

She let him sweat for a few minutes more. His panicked gaze darted back and forth between the two agents, and just as he began to look really desperate, she relented. "We know you're not our guy, Mr. Davis." She slid the other page from the folder across the table. It was information about the retreat, including a list of attendees.

"What…? You had this the whole fuckin' time? What the fuck, man?" he whined with an imploring look at Hotch.

"We believe you have valuable information for us, Mr. Davis. We want to talk about your revivals."

He blinked. "I don't know nothin' about this psycho. I'm a man of God, and I ain't got nothin' to hide."

It was a decided change of tone from his former nonchalance-turned-wheedling, and both agents saw then what a good manipulator this man had the potential to be. Prentiss cleared her throat. "We're interested in your…congregation." It wasn't quite the right word, but it would have to do. "We believe that the suspect may have attended a revival, but not recently. It's more likely that someone like his mother or grandmother would have gone regularly, and dragged him along with her. We believe she probably died not long before the murders began."

"I'm sorry, but I can't really keep track of the people who come and go at my services. We ain't like a formal church."

"We understand that, Mr. Davis," Hotch said. "Think hard. This is important. She would have been particularly fervent and a regular attendee."

"Shit, man, I don't know. We got lotsa little old ladies."

" _Think_ , Mr. Davis," Prentiss urged.

He let out a frustrated sigh, but then his face cleared. "You said she passed pretty recent?"

"Yes, probably within the last six months."

"I was just thinkin'…there was Miz Thomas, passed right around Christmas. She came every single week, singin' and witnessin'. She was full of the Holy Spirit, Lord rest her." He scratched his head. "She had a kid. He came with her once, but…"

"A kid? A child?" Prentiss pressed him.

"Naw, he was probably a little older'n me. Thirties, I guess."

"Do you know his name? Or Ms. Thomas' first name?"

"She was Adelaide Thomas. I don't think I ever caught his name. They lived pretty far out of town; he didn't go to the town school or nothin'. They did that home school thing."

Hotch and Prentiss exchanged another glance, and Prentiss swept the pages back into the manila folder. "Thank you, Mr. Davis. You've been very helpful."

"That's it? I can just go?"

"We might have further questions for you at some point, so don't go far. But, yes, you're free to leave," Hotch explained.

Ignoring the man's gaping expression, the two agents hurried from the room to collect the rest of their team. They had to find Adelaide Thomas' son, and they had to find him soon.


	8. An Unkindness

**Shake off this downy sleep, death's counterfeit,**  
**And look on death itself! up, up, and see**  
**The great doom's image!**  
William Shakespeare,  _Macbeth_  2.3

**Chakchiuma County Sheriff's Office**

Hotch and Prentiss reported the new information to the team and Dixon. The latter rubbed his chin as he pondered. "Adelaide Thomas' boy? Yeah, Davis is right: they never did come into town much. His name's somethin' from the Bible…Jacob or Joseph…hell, I don't know." He shrugged helplessly.

"It's fine, Sheriff," Hotch assured him. "Garcia will find what we need." He checked his watch with a grimace. "I think it can wait until in the morning, though; it's late, and we're all exhausted. He'll be looking for a new victim now that he's dumped Leslie, but he probably won't move for a few days."

"You think the Thomas boy is our, uh, UNSUB?" Dixon asked.

"It's a good lead," Prentiss said. "From what Davis said, the mother was hyper-religious, but the son rarely joined her at the revivals. The mother's recent death could easily be the stressor. They live in an isolated area, but he'd be familiar enough not to raise any eyebrows around town."

Dixon grunted. "Checks a lot of boxes in your profile."

"Yep. But a profile's rarely enough to get a search warrant," Rossi said. "It'd be nice if we had a little more evidence against him."

"We'll get his name and start lookin' into him," Dixon said. "I gotta get home before the wife takes a piece outta my hide, but the boys can handle it. We'll have somethin' solid by mornin'."

"Combine that with Garcia's skills, and we'll know everything from his name to his shoe size," J.J. said.

"Good," Hotch said. "Let's all get some sleep and meet back here at eight; we'll bring the coffee."

* * *

Prentiss couldn't have said what woke her. It wasn't slow, like the gradual surfacing from a dream and into consciousness. Instead, her eyes opened suddenly, as though on springs, and she felt tense and alert, literally wide awake. She clutched the thin sheet to her and strained to hear over the pounding of blood in her ears. She blinked; held a hand in front of her face. It was dark, completely dark, and silent. Odd, since the orange sodium streetlight just outside the window had kept her awake despite the blackout curtains.

She sat up; no light glowed from the smoke detector, and flipping the lamp's switch proved fruitless. The power was out, and as her senses cleared, Prentiss realized the night wasn't silent after all. She could hear, just at the edge of her senses, a strange, almost alien, hushed sort of sound. Susurrus, like the rush and slither of a snake over grass, or the covert ruffling of a bird's feathers.

She grabbed her sidearm out of the bedside table and moved cautiously to the window. She couldn't see anything outside, just darkness. It seemed as though the entire town was affected by the blackout.

Still moving with the careful, precise grace that her years with the FBI had made second nature, she unlocked the door and pulled it open; swept the area with her weapon, but then let it fall to her side in surprise. A tiny breath of shock escaped through parted lips. Now she understood the source of the unnerving noise she'd heard.

The entire parking lot was full of crows. Or ravens? She wasn't sure which. They were strangely silent: no cawing or  _cork_ ing, and the only sounds were the brief, sighing rustle of wings. She looked around, but she was the only human being in sight. She felt an urgent need to wake the team, if only so they could witness this…

The door next to hers opened and Reid stumbled out. His hair was flattened and teased against one side of his head, and he yawned hugely. He stood for a moment; blinked at the parking lot in consternation. "Ravens," he finally said.

"Is that what they are?" She didn't take her eyes from them; she wasn't sure if she feared their disappearance or something…more sinister.

"I'm pretty sure. It's a little hard to tell in the dark. Hey, do you know what a big group of ravens is called?"

"Um. A flock?"

"An unkindness," Hotch said as he joined them from around the corner. "It's an unkindness of ravens."

"An unkindness." She couldn't suppress a shiver. "Portentous, do you think, or just a really creepy coincidence?" The sight was bizarre, unsettling, and the only thing worse was the birds' preternatural silence.

Hotch shrugged. "The latter, I guess." He studied the creatures with a critical eye, and despite himself he felt a cold trickle down his spine. "They're so damn  _quiet_ ," he murmured.

More doors opened along the length of the motel, and J.J., Morgan and Rossi drifted toward them. No one said anything further; it seemed as though the birds' hush inspired the team, and they just watched the odd gathering in the dark night. They all felt the same disjointed sense of eerie restlessness that had plagued Prentiss since her abrupt awakening in a pitch-black room.

* * *

Next morning found the team bleary-eyed and jumpy as they gathered in the now-empty parking lot. Hotch suggested they stop for breakfast (and maybe a chance to interview John Davis' mother), so they loaded into the SUV and headed to Bea's.

The place went silent the moment the agents passed through the door. They exchanged nervous looks, but Bea seemed oblivious to the tension as she hurried by. "Y'all find a place; I'll bring you some menus in a sec," she said.

They chose a corner banquette in the back; the only table large enough for all of them; and tried to ignore the looks and mutters from fellow diners. "What the hell is going on?" Prentiss asked in a low voice.

"Maybe the blackout last night has people freaked out," Reid suggested. A waitress dropped menus on the table as she rushed past, and he began to peruse one with interest. "Strawberry pancakes, awesome!"

A few moments later Bea was by with a steaming pot of coffee. They all flipped their mugs up, and as she poured she slid something across the table. "I thought y'all might wanna see today's paper. I think it's why everybody's actin' jumpy as a cat in a room fulla rockin' chairs."

J.J. flipped open the folded newspaper and frowned. "This is exactly what I was hoping to avoid," she said, showing the paper around.

"Well. I guess there's no hope of keeping the witchcraft angle under wraps anymore," Rossi said ruefully.

"Oh, handsome, there never was. I know Mike told his boys not to talk to the reporters, and as far as I know they didn't, but gossip like that gets around," Bea said. She pulled out her pad and glared good-naturedly at Reid. "Now, honey pie, you tell Bea what she can get you to put some meat on them skinny bones of yours."

They ordered (Reid went with strawberry pancakes, and Bea insisted he add a side of locally made sausage and a glass of orange juice), and as Bea bustled away the silence was filled with the doctoring and drinking of coffee. Morgan nearly spilled his as J.J. let out a loud, angry scoff.

"I can't  _believe_  this article! It's pure sensationalism. How'd they get so many details about the torture?"

Reid was still dumping sugar into his mug, but he glanced up at J.J. with raised brows. "The writer might have extrapolated based on research and the few details we did release. So far the UNSUB has used very common methods of torture; they're all documented."

An old man leaned over from the neighboring booth and squinted at the agents. His face was lined, and his ancient cap advertised a defunct brand of chewing tobacco. "Y'all the FBI?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. I'm Agent Hotchner. Can we help you?"

He sniffed. "You think it's witches this boy's killin'? Some of them was good, God-fearin' folk."

Hotch glanced at J.J., and she smiled reassuringly at the man. "We truly doubt actual witchcraft is involved in any way," she said. "The man we're looking for is delusional; he believes these innocent people were witches, and they became the unfortunate victims of that delusion."

The man's companion, an even older man in overalls and a battered John Deere cap, sopped up egg yolk with the last bite of his toast as he considered the team. He chewed carefully; swallowed; and leaned across the table toward them. "I think maybe one or two of 'em was witches, but sure as hell not George. He was a damn good man."

"Men can't be witches," someone remarked from the nearby bar.

Hotch glanced around and realized that nearly everyone in the small restaurant was paying avid attention to their conversation.

"Actually, that's not true," Reid said in his lecturing voice. "Though fewer men were accused of witchcraft, some were, and in the modern Wicca religion, men and women are equals."

"I don't know nothin' 'bout no  _Wicca_ ," the first man said. "I just know what I seen, and there's been some weird stuff 'round here lately."

"Like what?" Prentiss asked. It earned her a glare from Hotch, but she was curious.

"The blackout last night, for one," John Deere cap said.

"The blight last summer," a woman said. "Killed every damn soybean in three counties; we still ain't recovered from it."

"Last week there was that hail. Came out the clear blue sky, real sudden, then stopped just as quick."

"That hail killed my best milker!"

"What y'all fancy FBI folks gonna do about it? Maybe that boy's on to somethin'; he's just made a few mistakes along the way is all," tobacco cap said.

Sensing the ratcheting tension, Hotch raised his hand in a placating gesture. "You all know that soybean blights and hail storms are unfortunate natural events; they aren't caused by human beings. The man killing these people is mentally ill, and we need to stop him before he hurts anyone else. All of his victims have been your friends, neighbors, teachers." He picked out the most vocal members of the crowd and met them squarely in the eye. A few flinched from his stern gaze, but one or two held it with scared, angry defiance.

"Bea," Morgan called, "I think we're gonna need our breakfast to go. We got work to do."

Reid and Prentiss slid out each end of the banquette, and the rest of the team quickly joined them. Morgan and Hotch cleared a path through the crowd, and Hotch sent the team to wait in the car as he collected their food. The tension in the diner didn't abate even once the well dressed FBI agent disappeared into the parking lot; the entire town was on edge, and it was close to an explosion.


	9. Dark Night, Mad Morning

**Or have we eaten the insane root**  
**That takes the reason prisoner?**  
William Shakespeare,  _Macbeth_  1.3 ****  


**Chakchiuma County Sheriff's Office**

The team was still shaken as they filed into the Sheriff's Office, Hotch leading the way. When Dixon suddenly appeared from around the corner, the Unit Chief nearly collided with him. Prentiss had to stop short to avoid running into Hotch's pin-striped back, and Morgan juggled the food like an acrobat. Prentiss craned her neck around Hotch's shoulder, and the expression on Dixon's face made her blood run cold.

"We got another missing," he said shortly.

"So soon?" Prentiss said. "He just dumped Leslie James yesterday!"

"It might not be our guy, but it's pretty suspicious."

"Who reported her missing?" Hotch said.

" _He_. Another male." Dixon jerked his thumb over his shoulder at a white-faced deputy they could see through Dixon's office window. It was the same one Morgan and Prentiss had talked to at George Carpenter's dump site. "Deputy Cox called it in."

The Sheriff led them into his office, and as they approached the deputy he said over his shoulder, "It's Buddy Williams. Tell 'em, Cox."

The deputy nodded; swallowed. "Sheriff sent me down to relieve Tucker; he was posted to look out for Buddy, like y'all said. I knocked on the door, but no one answered. I waited a bit, knocked some more, but still nothin'. I checked the window, and I saw…a table and a chair were pushed over, and there was somethin' spilled all over the floor."

Hotch rubbed his forehead. "Did you go inside?"

"Yep. Door was unlocked. I checked everywhere, called for Buddy: nothin'." He swallowed again, and his face went even paler. "I found Tuck's body in the kitchen. There were more signs of a struggle deeper in the house, and the back door was hangin' open. I can't remember a time my whole life when Buddy left that house, and it looks like he didn't go willingly now."

"If I were hunting witches, I'd choose the weird loner guy who never leaves home," Morgan said.

"Deputy Tucker must've seen something suspicious, went in to check it out. Looks like he was shot with his own weapon," Dixon said. "I gotta go tell his wife." He shook his head. "Poor Buddy. That boy don't deserve what this sicko's dishin' out."

"This guy's got balls," Prentiss remarked. The Sheriff looked mildly surprised at her language. "He dumped Leslie James right on top of half the sheriff department, and then he abducted a man we'd just spoken to. He killed a cop, and he did it all practically in the middle of town."

"He might have been watching the house while we were interviewing Buddy," Hotch said. He frowned. "Did the blackout affect the entire town?"

"Yep," Dixon said with a nod. His face cleared, then sagged once more. "I guess that's why Tuck went in, to check on Buddy durin' the blackout. Our boy was waitin' for him."

"Could be. It fits the methodical nature of the crimes so far," Reid said.

"I've got a crime scene unit down there. With a scene this fresh, we might get somethin'."

"We can hope, but I'm sure the UNSUB took the same forensic countermeasures he's used all along," Rossi said.

"Maybe not," Morgan said. "He's rushing now, escalating. That's when these guys screw up."

"Do you have the information on Adelaide Thomas' son, Sheriff?"

"Yeah, shit. All this made me clean forget." He fished around on his desk a moment before retrieving the file. "Name's Jonah Thomas," he said as he flipped it open. "Told you it was from the Bible. Age 30, inherited a nice chunk of land when his momma died. He's lived in Earthshine his whole life, except when he went off to college for a few years. He didn't graduate; came home early for some reason."

"Does he have a record?" Hotch asked.

"Some petty stuff; vandalism, a few parkin' tickets."

"What did he vandalize?" Prentiss asked.

Dixon grunted. "A church. Knocked over the altar and spray painted 'den of thieves' across one of the windows."

"'Den of thieves,'" Hotch said. "From Matthew; Jesus in Herod's temple. How old was he when this happened?"

"Twenty-five," Dixon said with a brief glance at the file.

"I think it's safe to say Jonah Thomas' issues with religion aren't new," Rossi remarked.

Hotch stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his face a mask of concentration. "Sheriff, do you think we have enough to get a warrant?"

He debated. "I know a judge who'll probably grant one. Lemme make a call."

Hotch nodded and gestured for the team to follow him to the break room. J.J. immediately began adding the new information to the white board, including anything they knew about Buddy Lester. Reid was booting up the computer to make the video uplink with Garcia. Prentiss and Rossi studied files while Hotch brooded and Morgan tried to get down a few bites of breakfast.

"Mornin', Mouseketeers! How's the Deep South treatin' y'all today?" the tech analyst said with an exaggerated Southern drawl. Even Hotch's mouth twitched in the ghost of a smile.

"Hey, momma," Morgan said. "Best part's the food, but overall I'm thinkin' that famous Southern hospitality is a little overrated."

"Up until this morning, everyone's been very nice," Prentiss said without looking up from the report in front of her.

"What happened this morning?" Garcia asked. They filled her in, and she frowned. "A soybean blight? I can look that up, easy peasy. Hail storm, too."

"See if you can find the cause of last night's blackout," Hotch told her.

She nodded and the sound of rapid-fire typing carried over the video feed. "Hey, so, what do you think set everyone off like that? Sounds like they were acting hysterical," she commented.

"Just a typical mob mentality," Rossi said. "It's a small town, very little crime, and now something like this happens: people are scared."

"Yeah, but, these are farmers and stuff. They know blights and hail storms happen. I can't believe they'd suddenly just agree with a freak like this guy."

"Maybe they've been drinking the Kool Aid," Prentiss said.

"Flavor Aid," Reid remarked distractedly. At Prentiss' look, he said, "I assume you're referring to Jonestown. It's a common misconception perpetuated by popular culture that Jim Jones forced his congregation to drink cyanide-laced Kool Aid. It was actually Flavor Aid. Similar, but not the same."

The team stared at him for a few unblinking seconds. He stared back, oblivious as always to their incredulity.

"What about that fungus stuff?" Garcia said, breaking the moment. "You know, it grows on wheat and whatever, then you eat bread made with it and go nuts. Isn't that what happened in Salem?"

"Ergot. It grows mostly on rye, less commonly on other grasses." Reid paused, considering. "In 1976 Linnda Caporael proposed ergot poisoning as the cause of the Salem witch hysteria, but the theory has since been discredited due to lack of evidence."

"But could it be a factor here?" Hotch asked.

"I don't think so. There are physical symptoms of ergotism that we aren't seeing." He spared a moment to consult his mental database; called up everything he knew about ergotism; began the recitation. "The disease was named Saint Anthony's Fire in the Middle Ages because it causes vasoconstriction of blood vessels, creating a burning sensation in the extremities, and then followed sometimes by gangrene and even loss of limbs. It also causes seizures, nausea, and uterine contractions to the point that ergot has been used since the Middle Ages to induce abortions. The fungus can affect cattle and other grain-fed animals, inducing a condition known as 'paspalum staggers.' Any vet or doctor would recognize the signs after a few patients reported symptoms, and they would get the CDC involved."

"You could've stopped at  _I don't think so_ : we would've taken your word for it," Morgan said.

Reid looked mildly insulted. "I like to be thorough."

Hotch raised a quelling brow. "Garcia, contact the CDC. I want to know if there's ever been an outbreak of ergotism in the area, or even if any isolated cases have been reported recently. It's worth a look, though I tend to agree with Reid's  _thorough_  assessment."

"I didn't even get into the modern medical applications," Reid grumbled under his breath, "or the historical uses as a hallucinogen."

The Unit Chief cleared his throat. "Morgan, why don't you and Reid head to the scene? I'll call you if we learn anything new."

Morgan grinned and pulled Reid from the chair by his collar. "You heard the man, kid; let's beat it."

"Morgan, don't you think I'm a little old to be called  _kid_? I mean, maybe it was funny at first, but now…" The sound of Reid's protestations trailed away as the two agents hurried through the station.

The team watched them go with varying expressions of amusement, and once they were out of sight Hotch turned back to the computer. "Find me everything you can about Jonah Thomas, Garcia. There's a good chance he could be our UNSUB."


	10. A Deed of Dreadful Note

**Ere the bat hath flown**  
His cloistered flight, ere, to black Hecate's summons  
The shard-born beetle with his drowsy hums  
Hath rung night's yawning peal, there shall be done  
A deed of dreadful note.  
William Shakespeare,  _Macbeth_  3.2 ****  


**Residence of William "Buddy" Lester**

"Ah, gentlemen, we really need to stop meeting under these circumstances," Homer Earnst called as Morgan and Reid stepped into the carefully controlled chaos of the crime scene. The tall man was standing beside Deputy Tucker's body; a sheet had been draped over the body after Earnst's initial examination, but otherwise it had been left in situ at Hotch's request.

Reid tugged on latex gloves and Earnst pulled back the covering. The young agent's face showed his shock, briefly, before settling into its usual expression of professional detachment. "We were told he was shot with his own weapon," he said after a moment.

"Yes," Earnst replied, "that does appear to be the cause of death, though of course I won't know for sure until I get him back." He sighed. "You know, I've done more autopsies in the past month than in my previous 15 years as county coroner combined." He waved it away with a long-fingered hand. "As I'm sure you'll notice, Dr. Reid, Deputy Tucker sustained severe injuries before the shooting."

"You're sure all of this is perimortem?" Morgan asked.

"Hmm. With this much blood it's hard to tell." He hesitated. "I believe you've hypothesized that our killer is a large, fit man. So is – was – Deputy Tucker. They would be well matched in a struggle, and the suspect may have needed excessive force to subdue the deputy."

"He looks pretty damn subdued to me," Morgan said. He stood above the body, looking down. "The UNSUB was here when he shot Tucker. The deputy was already on the floor, probably passed out, most likely bleeding internally and concussed. Why the hell did he shoot him, too?"

"Like you said earlier," Reid said, "he's escalating. He might've panicked in the dark; went further than he meant to. Or he might be realizing how much he enjoys violence and inflicting pain, and this attack on Deputy Tucker just fueled it."

"Probably a combination of the two," Morgan said on a weary exhale.

"If you're finished here, Dr. Reid?" Earnst asked. At his nod, the coroner draped the sheet again and motioned for his assistant to remove the body. "Gentlemen, I don't think I need to tell you how these crimes are affecting our little town. We need some resolution, and we need it fast. Do you have any leads?"

Reid hesitated; glanced at Morgan. "We have someone in mind who fits the profile." Since in a town this size everyone was a witness, Morgan decided to forge ahead. "Do you know Jonah Thomas?"

Earnst looked startled. He removed his glasses; polished them with his handkerchief; returned them to their perch on his nose. "His mother passed recently, I believe. Adelaide, yes. She came through the funeral home, but no autopsy was necessary. The poor old dear had been fighting cancer for years."

"Did Jonah attend the funeral?"

"Oh, we didn't hold the funeral. But the home acts as my lab, and in Mississippi any death outside of a hospital has to undergo at least a cursory examination. I agreed with her physician's findings and ruled the death natural; the body was released to her son."

"So was the funeral at one of the town's churches?"

Earnst blinked; removed his glasses again. "I don't like to gossip, agents," he said in a way that made them think just the opposite was true. "I suppose this isn't exactly  _gossip_ , is it? I'm aiding your investigation."

"Exactly, sir," Morgan said. "Anything you know, no matter how insignificant it might seem, could help us."

He replaced the glasses with a small, delighted smile. "Well," he began with relish, "it's common knowledge that Adelaide Thomas was a God-fearing Christian woman. Before her husband passed in '86 she was a member of First Baptist, and she was quite enthusiastic. After that, though…well, Jonah could be a bit of a handful, and I suppose Miss Adelaide thought a stricter way of life would suit him better."

"How do you mean?" Reid asked.

"She took him out of school, began teaching him at home. That's not terribly uncommon around here, because some of the farms are a good ways out, but theirs isn't so far. Also, she left First Baptist and joined some Holy Roller type church. When she was first diagnosed, rumor has it she spent a whole heap of Jonah's inheritance on prayers from her new pastor."

"John Davis?" Morgan asked.

"Oh, no. She didn't start going to his revivals until it was clear no amount of money could buy her a miracle.

"As for her funeral, I have no idea. There wasn't an announcement in the paper, and Jonah never ordered a casket or cremation services from us; there are only two funeral homes in the county, you know, so it's unlikely he would've gone elsewhere."

"He wouldn't have used the other home?" Reid asked.

Earnst looked uncomfortable. "Agents, I don't want you to take this the wrong way. This is a good town, and I know what Yankees often think of the South. The other funeral home is the one generally used by African Americans," he said delicately. "It's a sort of self-segregation; old traditions, I suppose; and I frankly think it's a bit silly. Death is the great equalizer, after all, so we might as well all be in it together."

"We understand, Mr. Earnst," Morgan said. "Thank you; you've been very helpful."

The coroner nodded smartly and turned away to oversee the removal of Tucker's body. Morgan and Reid stepped aside; the former raised a brow at the latter. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" he asked his younger colleague.

"I think so. We should call Hotch."

"I hope this isn't as Bates Motel as it sounds."

"Did you know that Norman Bates from  _Psycho_  was loosely based on serial killer Ed Gein? Well, actually, he only killed two women, and he was only charged with murder once, so he's not technically a  _serial_ , but—"

"Reid, I know," Morgan said. "I'm a profiler too, remember?"

A pause. "Of course. I just, er. Refresher course. Um. You should probably call Hotch now."

Morgan grinned, shook his head, and dialed the familiar number.

* * *

**Chakchiuma County Sheriff's Office**

"I don't see any record of a funeral or burial for Adelaide Thomas, sir," Garcia said. "I found her death certificate, and it's just like Morgan said, but after that…nothing."

 "Check Thomas' financial records; look for the purchase of a casket or cremation services," Hotch told her.

Another few moments of frantic typing. "Nothing. Like I said before, he doesn't spend much. His main purchases are at the grocery and hardware stores."

"Hardware store?" Prentiss asked. "Any idea what he bought?"

"Um.  _If_  the store keeps computerized records, I could possibly cross-reference the days he visited the store with their inventory, but…"

"We'd have no way of knowing what exactly he bought, because it would show the entire day's inventory change," Prentiss concluded.

"Bingo, my lovely. All I can say for sure is that he was a frequent customer. This is interesting, though; after his mother's death, he shopped there three or four times a week, but he's only been twice in the last three months."

"He would need supplies for his torture chamber," Rossi said. "He had to build a gallows and that rack thing and the…" He hesitated, unsure what to call it, and made an illustrative hand gesture.

"The icky stone squishy thing," Garcia supplied.

"Right. That."

"He grew up on a farm; I'm sure he's handy enough to build whatever he would need," Prentiss said. "You know, it's interesting that Reid should mention Ed Gein." (He had, again, in the background of Morgan's phone call; it seemed his need to share trivia could not be contained.)

"What makes you say that?" Rossi asked.

Prentiss gave a restless shrug. "There are some parallels. Gein's father died when he was young, and he became incredibly close to his mother. She was hyper-religious, and she taught him to hate and fear women. He lived a very isolated life, and once his mother died he started robbing graves – and, eventually, killing – in a twisted attempt to reconnect with her."

"Except in addition to the women, our UNSUB has killed one man, and kidnapped another," Hotch said. "There's also no evidence he's keeping trophies like Gein so famously did."

"That's true, but this UNSUB's motives are clearly different. Gein wanted to keep his victims forever, the way he couldn't keep his mother. This UNSUB, on the other hand, is…trying to make his mother proud." She said this last bit in a rush, as though she were afraid the new thought would evaporate before she had committed it to the air.

"By going on a religious crusade, he believes he's doing what she would've wanted," Rossi said.

"Exactly."

"J.J., I want you to start working on a press release about Lester's abduction and Deputy Tucker's death," Hotch said. "Mention that we questioned John Davis, but make sure not to use the word  _suspect_. Let it be implied."

"He'll think someone else is getting the credit for his work," Rossi said.

Hotch nodded. "J.J., make sure you stress the heinous nature of Deputy Tucker's murder. Speak directly to the UNSUB, and let him know how ashamed he should be for such a cowardly act."

"He'll come to us. He'll want to clear the air about Tucker, and he'll be furious that we're looking at John Davis."

"That's the hope." He paused a moment. "I'm not sure if we have enough to get a warrant without any physical evidence, so it's crucial that he contact us. I have every confidence in you, J.J."

She smiled, briefly. "Well since the entire case is riding on me, I better get to work. I'll assemble the troops."

"Garcia, keep digging. Go back further; investigate the entire family, any friends Jonah Thomas has had, what classes he took in school – everything."

"Yes, sir. I will become a veritable fount of crazy,  _American Gothic_ -style knowledge."

"If nothing else we could pick him up on improper disposal of a corpse," Prentiss said.

Hotch nodded. "It would get us in the door. Do it."

"Come on, Elliot Ness," Rossi said to Prentiss, "let's go arrest Al Capone for tax evasion."


	11. Expected Visitors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for that posting delay, y'all. Shit suddenly got so busy I didn't even have time to cut and paste!

**I am in blood**  
**Stepped so far that, should I wade no more,**  
 **Returning were as tedious as go o'er.**  
William Shakespeare,  _Macbeth_  3.4

**Residence of Jonah Thomas**

Hotch had decided to assemble the team to accompany Rossi and Prentiss on their fishing expedition, and as a result they'd gotten a later start than he'd intended. The farm was about 30 minutes outside of Earthshine proper, but still within Chakchiuma County and therefore under Dixon's jurisdiction. A squad car followed the big SUV, and a deputy would make the actual arrest. A crime scene unit was on standby, and Dixon was calling around in search of corpse-sniffing dogs.

Hotch drummed the steering wheel impatiently as a tanker truck pulled out in front of them on the winding country highway. The speed limit was 50, but the truck was doing something like 35. He didn't want to run the lights and sirens; land was pretty flat here, and Dixon had warned that Thomas would see them coming from a long way off.

Rossi was studying the map, and Prentiss was following the breaking news updates on her phone; back at the station J.J. was holding the press conference, and they wanted to know the moment it hit the wires. Reid and Morgan were catching up on the latest info Garcia had gathered about Jonah Thomas, and they both agreed he fit the profile almost perfectly.

"I think it's just up ahead," Rossi said. "There should be a left turn."

Hotch nodded when the turnoff came into view. "I don't think I need to remind you all to keep your eyes open. With the right probable cause we won't need the warrant."

The asphalt turned to gravel, but it was well maintained, and the SUV crunched along with ease. Another 5 minutes brought them to a ramshackle farmhouse. To Prentiss the scene looked like something from a Norman Rockwell painting: homey, slightly worn around the edges, and limned in a patina of Americana.

"It doesn't look like the home of a mission-driven serial killer," Rossi remarked.

"It never does, from the outside," Hotch said. He cut the engine and they unloaded. Hotch motioned the deputy over. "You understand what we're doing here, Deputy Hutchens?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. We're here about improper disposal of a corpse  _only_. Don't mention the murders, Tuck, or Buddy Lester."

"Good. Keep your head about you, Deputy; though we suspect that Jonah Thomas is the UNSUB, we don't know for sure. Be careful, stay alert, and remember we're right behind you." Hutchens was no green recruit – he was a 20-year man, in point of fact – but this case was pushing everyone's buttons. Tucker's murder had upped the stakes considerably, and Hotch didn't want any of Dixon's men taking revenge on the UNSUB. He and Morgan followed the deputy to the house, and the rest of the team took up positions around the yard.

Several steps led up to a wide, wrap-around front porch. The stairs sagged a bit in the middle, but the railing had been recently repaired. Hotch noticed marks on the steps where flowerpots had once stood; on the porch a swing hung from rusted chains. He studied the front door; its red paint had once been fresh and bright, but now it was faded. From a distance the house had looked homey, but up close he saw that any personal touches had been neglected or removed.

Hutchens knocked on the weathered door. There was no answer. Hotch indicated that he should knock again, and he did so, harder. "Mr. Thomas, Chakchiuma County Sheriff's Department. Open up!" he called.

Silence, interrupted only by the lazy clucking of chickens, echoed through the yard.

Morgan reached around the deputy to hit the doorbell, but Hotch's hand on his arm stopped him. "Wait," he said. "Look at that." Wires ran around the doorframe to the bell; the three lawmen studied them with perplexed, apprehensive expressions.

"I ain't never seen nothin' like that," Hutchens said. "Who the hell needs all them wires for a damn doorbell?"

Hotch called Reid over, and the young genius hurried to join them. He leaned forward; scrunched his face in consternation at the strange configuration. "This doesn't make any sense. There's no way a doorbell would require this much wiring." He straightened; rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully. "I need a screwdriver, the kind with a big plastic or wooden handle. Anybody have something like that?"

"I probably got one in my emergency kit. Be right back," Hutchens said.

"You gonna take it apart?" Morgan asked.

"No," he said distractedly. Reid squinted at the doorbell; followed the wires with a hovering fingertip. Hutchens returned and offered him a big Phillips head with a sturdy plastic grip. "Stand back," he told the others.

"Reid, whatever you're planning, I don't think—"

Hotch's protest was cut off as Reid stabbed the doorbell with the business end of the screwdriver. Sparks flew, and inside they could hear the muffled wail of an alarm.

"Holy shit—! It was live," Morgan said. He stared down at his hand as though to make sure it were still whole and unscathed. "I woulda lit up like a Christmas tree."

"Off the porch," Hotch barked, " _now_. If he has one trap he could have others."

No one wasted time arguing, and they were soon gathered in the yard with a puzzled Rossi and Prentiss. "What was all that about?" the former asked.

"The doorbell was rigged," Morgan said. "There's no way Thomas doesn't know we're here now."

"I guess he wasn't planning on many visitors," Reid said.

"Or he suspected we'd be coming," Hotch replied grimly.

Prentiss' phone binged softly, and she pulled it from its holster. "J.J.'s press conference was picked up nationally," she said as she checked the screen. "Now the entire country thinks John Davis is the UNSUB."

* * *

Jonah Thomas was pulled away from the portable television's small screen by the immediate, angry wail of the alarm. He frowned; glanced between the screen and the alarm's flashing light. He had no doubt who his unwelcome visitors were.

He'd been expecting them.

He just hadn't been expecting them quite so  _soon_. His work wasn't anywhere near finished yet. He muted the television; turned off the alarm's insistent noise. Now he could hear the whimpers, the small, child-like cries that his latest prisoner made.

He sighed and turned away from the pretty blond's silent image. The idea of John Davis doing this work was absurd, and he was sure the FBI was putting it out there as a red herring, a juvenile and blatant attempt at manipulation. Ridiculous. He wasn't going to let such worries interfere with his mission. "We're running out of time, Mr. Lester," he said. "So let's cut to the chase, shall we?" He paused at the brazier and took a moment to select the perfect tool.

Buddy's face crumpled in terror; tears coursed down his round cheeks, and he struggled against the bonds that held him. Thomas sighed; the pinchers in his hand glowed white-hot. "Now none of that, Mr. Lester. We have work to do. Very important work."


	12. Simple, Really

**I have almost forgot the taste of fears;**  
**The time has been, my senses would have cool'd**  
 **To hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair**  
 **Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir**  
 **As life were in't; I have supp'd full with horrors;**  
 **Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts**  
 **Cannot once start me.**  
William Shakespeare,  _Macbeth_ 5.5

**Residence of Jonah Thomas**

"Hutchens, call for backup," Hotch ordered. "We just got our probable cause."

"We can't wait that long, Hotch," Prentiss protested. "Buddy could be hurt or dying; it'll take Dixon 45 minutes to get out here."

"There could be more traps," Reid said. "It's risky."

Hotch studied the house for a long moment; the air around him vibrated with tension. Reid was right, and he didn't like it, but he wasn't sure they had a choice. "I think it's a chance we'll have to take. Proceed slowly and stay observant. Morgan and Reid, Rossi and Hutchens; Prentiss, you're with me. Don't lose sight of your partner, and keep your radio line open."

"We'll take the house," Morgan said. "Let's go, Reid." They drew their weapons and began carefully creeping up the porch steps.

Rossi and Hutchens headed for a group of outbuildings off to the left, and Hotch and Prentiss made their way around the house. A Ford pickup was parked in the gravel drive; it was several years old, but it gleamed in the dull late-morning sun. The backyard was empty except for the truck; a barn rose ahead of them, and Hotch made a silent gesture toward it.

They moved cautiously across the barnyard. Hotch indicated a smaller door to the left of the huge barn doors, and after a careful check for any wiring, he reached for the handle.

The door swung open on silent hinges. It was dark inside, and quiet; the agents flipped on their flashlights and shone them around the empty space. "I don't think he's here," Prentiss finally said as her shoulders sagged in defeat.

Before Hotch could agree, a series of muffled booms rent the still air. They exchanged wide-eyed, frightened glances, and Hotch was reaching for his radio when Rossi's voice crackled through it. " _Hotch, I think we found another trap._ "

"Are you ok? What happened?" he demanded.

" _We're fine; looks like a propane tank rigged to a floor switch. Hutchens noticed it, and we were able to get out just in time. Can't say the same for the chickens, though; the entire coop just went up in flames._ "

"What else was over there?"

" _Not sure. It's a damn mess; if he and Buddy were in here, they're gone now._ "

"Shit," Prentiss muttered.

"Get back to the car," Hotch said into the radio. "Wait there for backup. I'm pulling Reid and Morgan from the house, too."

Prentiss made an angry, frustrated little noise in the back of her throat. She could only imagine what Buddy must be going through, if he were even still alive. The house could easily be rigged, too, and they could lose any chance of ever finding Jonah Thomas and his innocent captive.

"Why haven't there been any traps in here?" Hotch said.

The thought had just occurred to her, as well. If the coops and other outbuildings were rigged, along with the doorbell – why would he leave the barn trap-free? She stopped pacing and shone her light more carefully into the shadowy corners; along the dirt floor. There didn't seem to be anything amiss. She turned back to the Unit Chief with a shake of her head. "I don't see anything; maybe this building—" Her light gleamed off something in the shadows, and she raised her weapon. "Hotch, get down!"

He didn't hesitate; threw himself to the floor. Three shots whizzed over his head, and he heard the heavy sound of a body striking hard-packed dirt.

Prentiss let out a long exhale; stepped around Hotch and kicked something aside. "Are you ok?" she asked him without looking around.

"I'm fine. What just happened?" He rose on legs that shook ever so slightly and brushed the dirt from his vest and formerly immaculate suit. He turned just as Prentiss knelt beside the prone form to check for a pulse. After a moment she gave a shake of her head.

"Gone," she said. "He was skulking, sir." She pointed out the object she had kicked. "I think that would've done some serious damage."

It was a fireplace poker, and it still had a hint of its red-hot glow. "Skulking," he said after a moment. "You sound like Reid."

Her mouth quirked. "I just saved your life; I can sound like whomever I damn well please." A beat. "Sir."

" _Hotch, I think we've got something,_ " Morgan's voice said through the radio. " _There's a basement, and Reid said it's wired like the front door._ "

"I thought there weren't any basements in this part of Mississippi," Prentiss said.

Hotch eyed her a moment. "We've got a man down, probably the UNSUB," he told Morgan. "Rossi and Hutchens nearly got blown to hell along with the chickens, so I'm ordering both of you out of that house. Don't let Reid get any Mr. Wizard style ideas."

" _Hotch, it looks like the lock is controlled by some sort of code. I'm not sure if I can break it,_ " Reid said.

"I don't want you to try. There's no telling what the consequences could be if you get it wrong."

" _There's somebody down there,_ " Morgan said. " _I don't know how much time we have._ "

"Buddy," Prentiss said. Helpless frustration roiled through her; he could be in pain, dying, and they couldn't get to him. She'd killed the only person who knew the combination, and she had no idea if they could get through the door in time.

" _He quoted Bible verses and lines from_ Malleus Maleficarum _. Maybe he…_ " Reid's voice trailed off, and Hotch had a vision of the faraway look the young genius got when his brain was hard at work.

"Reid, listen to me. You are  _not_  to touch that lock. Do you understand? Reid! Reid, do you copy!"

* * *

" _Do you understand? Reid! Reid, do you copy!_ " Hotch's voice barked through the radio. It barely registered as Reid concentrated on the keypad before him; numbers raced through his head; he imagined and discarded dozens of possible combinations.

"Reid, I think he's serious. We should get out of here," Morgan said. "One of these traps nearly killed me; you've got no idea what you might be dealing with."

"No, Morgan, I can get it. Just give me a minute."

"Reid—"

" _Quiet_ , please. I'm thinking," he snapped. He tapped a series of buttons, and the combination was rejected. Reid ran both hands through his messy hair; snagged long, thin fingers among the tangled curls. The slight pain seemed to jog his mind, and his face suddenly cleared with the light of epiphany. "Eureka," he muttered as he typed again. This time the light turned green and the door swished open. "That's Greek, you know," he told Morgan. "It means 'I've found it.'"

Morgan wasn't really amused, and he didn't really have time for a language lesson. He pushed past the younger agent and moved slowly down the stairs, weapon ready. The smell of burnt flesh hit him almost instantly; he fought the urge to gag.

"What's that noise?" Reid whispered.

"I don't know," Morgan said with slow shake of his head. "It sounds like water running."

Reid's deep-set eyes went wide. "Water!" Now he was the one to push Morgan out of the way, and he ran down the steps at full speed.

"Reid!" Morgan cried. "God damn it."

The basement room was small, little more than a cellar designed to hold canned goods and other supplies. It was completely lined in stone. A heated brazier was set against one wall; various metal implements poked out of the cooling coals. A chair was bolted to the floor; it had leather shackles at the neck, wrists and ankles.

What brought Morgan up short at the base of the stairs was the sight of his skinny partner wrestling with something in a huge aquarium. Water flew everywhere, and the young agent was soaked. Morgan tried to make sense of what he was seeing; was there some man-eating fish that had attacked Reid? Or…

His mind cleared, and he realized the fish was actually a man, tied at the wrists and ankles, and Reid was trying to pull him out of the tank. Morgan hurried forward to help, and together they dragged him clear. He wasn't breathing.

"The float test," Reid gasped. "A suspected witch was thrown in a pond, and if she floated she was innocent. If she sank, she was guilty."

Morgan cut the bonds around Lester's wrists and began CPR. Reid radioed for help, and Hotch's furious voice echoed through the tiny basement.

" _I told you not to go in there alone!_ "

"Yell at him later," Morgan said. "Right now we've got an unconscious man who needs medical assistance." He pumped Buddy's chest; blew more air into his unresponsive mouth. As he began compressions once again, the man beneath his hands suddenly let out a choking cough. Morgan turned him onto his side, and water spluttered from between his lips.

"You're ok, man," Morgan said, patting his back. "It's gonna be ok."

He was nude, and the two agents couldn't help but notice the savage burns all over his body. "You're gonna be ok, Buddy," Morgan repeated. "Just try to breathe. Just breathe."

* * *

**FBI jet en route to Quantico, VA**

"I just want to know how you figured out the combination," Prentiss said to Reid. She passed him a cup of coffee and scooted past him to the window seat next to his; the other agents quietly stopped what they were doing to pay attention.

"It was pretty simple, really," he said modestly. "I remembered the Bible passages he had quoted from, and I used those numbers in combination with a simple numeric code. Then I took the  _Malleus Maleficarum_  passage, combined with the scorecard he left for us, and I—" He noticed Prentiss' blank look; he cleared his throat awkwardly and took a sip of scalding coffee. "Ow," he muttered when it burned his tongue.

"Sounds simple," she said.

"I like math," he offered with a small, pained smile.

"I don't understand how Buddy survived," J.J. said. "If Thomas put him in the tank before he went to find Hotch and Prentiss in the barn, he must've been in there 10, 15 minutes."

"He left the tank only half full," Reid said. "When I failed at the combination the first time, the rest of the water poured in. That's when…that's when Buddy started to drown." He looked down into his coffee cup; his expression was haunted.

"If you had waited for the rest of us—" Rossi began.

"It wouldn't have mattered," Hotch said. "Reid is probably the only person who could have figured it out. If it had taken any longer, Buddy would've died."

"If I had gotten it right the first time, he wouldn't have drowned at all."

Hotch's brows rose. "Water was leaking into the tank, Reid. It would've filled eventually; probably before any of us could have cracked that code."

"So I'm not fired?" he asked with a weak smile.

"Not this time. But we will need to talk when we get back."

"You did a good thing, kid," Morgan said. "Just don't get too cocky."

Reid made some reply, and Rossi offered his opinion, but Prentiss let it all fade out. She watched the clouds out the window and considered. They'd just left their second small town in as many weeks, and just like in Alaska, the town would never be the same again. She wished the world were different. She wished  _people_  were different.

She pressed her hand against the cold window.

More than anything, she wished for a little peace. They all needed it. She wondered, as they flew above the earth in their little cocoon of quiet toward home and the next case of horror and depravity, if any of them could ever hope to find such a simple, wholesome thing after all that they'd seen.

She had to believe they could.

 **Each one has to find his own peace from within. And peace to be real must be unaffected by outside circumstances.  
** Mahatma Gandhi


End file.
